Old  Chester  Tales 


By 


Margaret  Deland 


With    Illustrations    by 

Howard  Pyle 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
NEW    YORK    AND     LONDON 


BOOKS    BY 
MARGARET    DELAND 

OLD  CHESTER  TALES.  Illustrated.  Post8vo$l  50 

AN  ENCORE.     Illustrated 8vo  1  50 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  HELENA  RICHIE. 

Illustrated Post  8vo  1  50 

DR.  LA VENDAR'S  PEOPLE.   HIM.   PostSvo  150 

R.  J.'S  MOTHER.    Illustrated PostSvo  150 

GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL 16mo  50 

THE  COMMON  WAY...                  ...\Qmonet  125 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1898,  by  HAKPHR  &  BROTHERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 


[Page  62 


"  'CHANGE  IT?  MY  NAME?'  SHE  SAID 


TO 

LORIN   DELAND 


October  9,  1898 


225938 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  PROMISES  OF  DOROTHEA 3 

GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL 43 

Miss  MARIA  .    .    .    .    , 89 

>THE  CHILD'S  MOTHER 135 

JUSTICE  AND  THE  JUDGE 177 

WHERE  THE  LABORERS  ARE  FEW 225 

SALLY 267 

THE  UNEXPECTEDNESS  OF  MR.  HORACE  SHIELDS    .    .    .    .313 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  '  CHANGE  IT  ?  MY  NAME  ?'  SHE  SAID  " Frontispiece 

WENT  PLODDING  OUT  TO  SEE  HIS  PEOPLE  WHO 

WERE  SICK Facing  p.  6 

"SHE  SEEMED  'A  TALL  WHITE  LILY,'  HE  SAID"  .  .  "  14 
"ALONG  THE  HORIZON  A  FEW  WHITE  CLOUDS  WERE 

HEAPED  IN  SHINING  DOMES " "  74 

"'AND  WHO'S  GOING  TO  SUPPORT  'EM?'  DEMANDED 

MRS.  BARKLEY " "  Q2 

ROSE  MET  HIM  AT  THE  GATE "  126 

"  SHE  COULD  NOT  TAKE  HER  EYES  AWAY  FROM  THE 

CHILD" "  156 

"THEN  SHE  DROPPED  DOWN  AT  HIS  FEET"  ...  "  170 
1 '  THEOPHILUS  WENT  RIGHT  UP  THE  STEP  AND  TUGGED 

AT  THE  BELL" "  182 

"'  SO  YOU'RE  HANGING  THE  LOCUSTS?'"    ....  "  194 

"  ON  THIS  HOT  AUGUST  AFTERNOON  " "  232 

"  '  THE  GREATER  YOU  ARE,'  SAID  THE  ACROBAT,  '  THE 

MORE  FOLKS  ENVY  YOU  '  " "  246 

"THEY  TOLD  EACH  OTHER  ABOUT  IT" "  268 

"  SALLY  WENT  ACROSS  THE  ROAD  TO  THE  GREEN 
HOUSE"     "  274 

THE  BURIAL   OF   JIM    SHIELDS "  326 

"  MR.  HORACE  LOOKED  AT  HER  WITH  INSTANT   SYM 
PATHY  "    "  340 

vii 


THE   PROMISES  OP   DOROTHEA 


N*> 

THE   PROMISES  OF   DOROTHEA 


OLD  CHESTER  was  always  very  well  satisfied  with 
itself.  Not  that  that  implies  conceit ;  Old  Chester 
merely  felt  that  satisfaction  with  the  conditions  as 
well  as  the  station  into  which  it  had  pleased  God  to 
call  it  which  is  said  to  be  a  sign  of  grace.  Such  sat 
isfaction  is  said  also  to  be  at  variance  with  progress, 
but  it  cannot  be  denied  that  it  is  comfortable  ;  as 
for  progress,  everybody  knows  it  is  accompanied  by 
growing-pains.  Besides,  if  people  choose  to  burn 
lamps  and  candles  instead  of  gas  ;  if  they  prefer  to 
jog  along  the  turnpike  in  stage-coaches  instead  of 
whizzing  past  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and  cinders  in  a 
railroad  car  ;  if  they  like  to  hear  the  old  parson  who 
married  them — or  baptized  some  of  them,  for  that 
matter — mumbling  and  droning  through  his  old,  old 
sermons  ;  if  they  like  to  have  him  rejoice  with  them, 
and  advise  them,  and  weep  with  them  beside  their 
open  graves — if  people  deliberately  choose  this  sort 
of  thing,  the  outside  world  may  wonder,  but  it  has 
no  right  to  condemn.  And  if  it  had  condemned, 
Old  Chester  would  not  have  cared  in  the  very  least. 
It  looked  down  upon  the  outside  world.  Not  un 
kindly,  indeed,  but  pityingly  ;  and  it  pursued  its 

3 


JiESl"ER    TALES 

contented  way,  without   restlessness,  and  without 
aspirations. 

In  saying  "  Old  Chester "  one  really  means  the 
Dales,  the  Wrights,  the  Lavendars  —  that  includes 
Susan  Carr,  who  married  Joey  Lavendar  when  she 
was  old  enough  to  have  given  up  all  ideas  of  that 
kind  of  thing ;  it  means  the  Temple  connection, 
though  only  Jane  Temple  lives  in  Old  Chester  now, 
and  she  is  Mrs.  Dove  ;  at  least  that  is  her  name,  but 
hardly  any  one  remembers  it,  and  she  is  always 
spoken  of  as  "  Jane  Temple  " ;  the  Dove  is  only  an 
incident,  so  to  speak,  for  one  scarcely  feels  that  her 
very  respectable  little  husband  is  part  of  "Old 
Chester."  The  term  includes  the  Jay  girls,  of 
course,  and  the  Barkleys  ;  though  in  my  time  only 
Mrs.  Barkley  was  left ;  her  sons  had  gone  out  into 
the  world,  and  her  husband  —  it  must  have  been 
somewhere  in  the  early  sixties  that  Barkley  senior, 
Old  Chester's  blackest  sheep,  took  his  departure  for 
a  Place  (his  orthodox  relatives  were  inclined  to  be 
lieve)  which,  in  these  days,  is  even  more  old-fash 
ioned  than  Old  Chester  itself.  The  Kings  are  of 
Old  Chester,  and  the  two  Miss  Ferrises ;  and  the 
Steeles,  and  the  John  Smiths.  The  Norman  Smiths, 
who  own  a  great  mill  in  the  upper  village,  have  no 
real  connection  with  Old  Chester,  though  the  John 
Smiths  are  always  very  much  afraid  of  being  con 
founded  with  them  ;  the  two  families  are  generally 
referred  to  as  the  "real  Smiths"  and  the  "rich 
Smiths."  The  real  Smiths  might  with  equal  accu 
racy  have  been  called  the  poor  Smiths,  except  that 
Old  Chester  could  not  have  been  so  impolite.  The 
rich  Smiths  were  one  of  several  families  who  went 
to  make  up  what  the  geographies  call  the  "popula- 

4 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

tion "  of  the  village,  but  they  were  never  thought 
of  when  one  said  "  Old  Chester."  The  Macks  were 
in  this  class,  and  the  Hayeses,  and  a  dozen  others. 
Old  Chester  had  nothing  to  say  against  these  peo 
ple  ;  they  were  rich,  but  it  did  not  follow  that  they 
had  not  made  their  money  honestly ;  and  their  sons 
and  daughters,  having  had  time  to  get  used  to 
wealth,  had  reasonably  good  manners.  But  they 
were  not  "  Old  Chester."  The  very  fact  that  they 
were  not  always  satisfied  with  the  existing  order 
proved  that.  One  by  one  these  outsiders  had  bought 
or  built  in  the  village,  because  they  had  interests 
in  the  new  rolling-mills  in  Upper  Chester  ;  and  they 
had  hardly  come  before  they  began  to  make  a  stir, 
and  try  to  "  improve"  things.  Then  it  was  that  Old 
Chester  arose  in  its  might ;  Heaven  and  the  town 
vote  were  invoked  for  protection  against  a  branch 
railroad  to  connect  the  two  villages  >  and  the  latter, 
at  least,  answered  with  decision.  The  proposition 
that  gas  should  be  brought  from  the  mill  town  de 
stroyed  itself  because  of  its  cost ;  even  the  rich 
Smiths  felt  that  it  would  be  too  expensive. 

So  Old  Chester  pursued  its  own  satisfied  path  ; 
it  had  a  habit  of  alluding  to  any  changes  that  the 
younger  generation  or  the  new  people  might  advo 
cate  as  "airs."  Sam  Wright  said,  gruffly,  that  what 
had  been  good  enough  for  his  father  was  good  enough 
for  him.  This  was  when  his  eldest  son  suggested 
that  a  connection  with  Upper  Chester's  water  supply 
would  be  a  good  thing.  "  Young  man,"  said  Sam, 
"  I've  pumped  many  a  bucket  of  water  in  my  day, 
and  it  won't  hurt  you  to  do  the  same."  "  It  isn't  a 
question  of  hurting,"  said  young  Sam,  impatiently  ; 
"  it's  a  question  of  saving  time."  "  Saving  your 

5 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

grandmother  !"  interrupted  his  father;  "since  when 
has  your  time  been  so  valuable,  sir?  Come,  now, 
don't  put  on  airs  !  I  guess  what  was  good  enough 
for  my  father  is  good  enough  for  you." 

This  satisfaction  with  the  Past  was  especially 
marked  in  church  matters.  When  Helen  Smith — 
pretty,  impulsive,  and  a  dear  good  child,  too,  if  she 
was  "new" — told  Dr.  Lavendar  that  she  thought  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  to  have  a  girls'  club  at  St. 
Michael's,  the  old  minister  said,  his  kind  eyes  twin 
kling  at  her,  "The  best  club  for  girls  is  their  mothers' 
firesides,  my  dear  !" 

At  which  Miss  Smith  pressed  her  lips  together, 
and  said,  shortly  :  "  Well,  if  you  feel  that  way  about 
a  girls'  club,  I  suppose  you  won't  approve  of  a  de 
bating  society  for  the  boys  ?" 

"  Ho  !"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  "  boys  don't  wait  for 
their  parson's  approval  to  debate  !  There  is  too 
much  debating  already.  If  our  boys  here  in  Old 
Chester  would  talk  less  and  do  more,  if  they  would 
stop  discussing  things  they  know  nothing  about,  and 
listen  to  the  opinions  of  their  elders  and  betters, 
they  might  amount  to  something.  No,  we  don't 
want  any  debating  societies  in  Old  Chester.  They 
may  have  their  place  in  big  city  parishes — but  here  ! 
Why,  there  are  only  a  dozen  or  two  boys,  anyhow, 
and  I  know  their  fathers,  every  one  of  them  ;  they 
.wouldn't  thank  me  for  making  the  boys  bigger 
blatherskites  than  they  are  already — being  boys." 

"  But,  Dr.  Lavendar,"  Helen  protested,  with  height 
ened  color,  "  you  can't  say  the  fathers'  influence  is 
always  good.  Look  at  Job  Todd  ;  his  eldest  boy  is 
fourteen,  and  what  a  home  to  spend  his  evenings 
in  !  And  there  are  the  two  Rice  boys — no  mother, 

6 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

and  a  half-crazy  father  ;  surely  some  harmless  en 
tertainment — " 

"They  come  to  Sunday-school;  and  the  young 
fry  have  my  collect  class  on  Saturdays,"  said  Dr. 
Lavendar  ;  "  and  the  boys  in  Maria  Welwood's  class, 
or  Jane  Temple's,  get  all  the  pleasant  evenings  they 
need." 

"  Well,"  Helen  said,  trying  to  keep  the  irritation 
out  of  her  voice,  "  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  in  say 
ing  anything  more,  only  it  does  seem  to  me  that  we 
are  behind  the  times." 

"  I  hope  so,  I  hope  so,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  cheer 
fully. 

But  in  spite  of  snubs  like  this  the  new  people  had 
their  opinions  in  matters  ecclesiastical  as  well  as 
civil.  The  Hayeses  said  that  they  thought  a  "  more 
ornate  ritual  would  bring  in  the  lower  classes ;"  and 
they  added  that  they  did  wish  Dr.  Lavendar  would 
have  Weekly  Celebration.  The  Macks,  who,  before 
they  got  their  money,  had  been  United  Presbyterians, 
said  that  they  could  not  understand  why  Dr.  Lav 
endar  wouldn't  have  an  altar  and  a  cross.  He  was 
very  little  of  a  churchman,  they  said,  to  just  have 
the  old  wooden  communion  -  table ;  which,  indeed, 
never  had  any  other  decoration  than  the  "  fair  white 
linen  cloth  "•  on  the  first  Sunday  of  the  month. 

"  I  said  so  to  poor,  dear  old  Dr.  Lavendar,"  said 
Mrs.  Mack,  "  and  he  said, '  We  have  no  dealing  with 
the  Scarlet  Woman,  ma'am,  at  St,  Michael's  !'  Isn't 
he  a  queer  old  dear  ?  So  narrow-minded  !" 

And  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  dear  old  man 
was  a  little  short  with  ex-Presbyterian  Mrs.  Mack. 
The  fact  was,  at  that  particular  time,  he  happened 
to  have  enough  to  think  of  besides  the  whims  of  the 

7 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

new  people.  It  was  that  year  that  Old  Chester— 
the  real  Old  Chester — had  such  deep  disturbances: 
There  was  Miss  Maria  Welwood's  financial  catastro 
phe  ;  and  the  distressing  behavior  of  young  Rob 
ert  Smith  (he  was  one  of  the  "real  Smiths")  ;  and 
the  elder  Miss  Ferris's  illness,  and  the  younger  Miss 
Ferris's  recovery — both  caused  by  Oscar  King's  ex 
traordinary  conduct ;  conduct  in  which,  it  must  be 
admitted,  Dr.  Lavendar  was  very  much  mixed  up. 


II 

The  Misses  Ferris  lived  in  a  brick  house  a  little 
way  out  of  the  village,  on  the  river  road.  The  house, 
which  was  very  tall  and  narrow,  was  on  the  low 
meadow-land,  just  below  the  bend,  where  the  river 
widened  out  into  a  motionless  sheet  of  water,  choked 
along  the  shore  with  flags  and  rushes.  A  Lombardy 
poplar  stood  at  the  gate,  flinging  its  long,  thin  shad 
ow  back  and  forth  across  the  bleak  front  of  the 
house,  which  looked  like  a  pale  face,  its  shuttered 
windows  the  closed  eyelids,  weighted  down  in  de 
cent  death.  It  was  a  big,  gaunt  house,  lying  in 
the  autumn  sunshine,  silent  and  without  sign  of  life, 
except  the  shadow  of  the  poplar  swaying  back  and 
forth  like  some  gray  finger  laid  upon  dead  lips.  In 
doors  one  knew  how  still  it  was  because  of  the  rus 
tle  of  a  newspaper  slipping  to  the  floor,  or  the  scratch, 
scratch  of  a  pen.  Sometimes  from  the  long,  holland- 
clad  parlor  there  would  come  through  the  silent 
house  some  faint  burst  of  music  from  the  jingling 
old  piano;  and  Miss  Clara  Ferris  —  the  well  Miss 
Ferris — would  look  up,  frowning  a  little,  and  saying 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

to  herself  that  she  hoped  Dorothea's  practising  would 
not  disturb  dear  Mary  ;  and  there  was  generally  a 
sigh  of  relief  when  the  music  faltered  and  ceased 
and  the  silence  closed  in  again.  Sometimes  it  did 
disturb  dear  Mary,  who  was  the  sick  Miss  Ferris, 
and  she  would  call  out  from  her  dimly  lighted  room 
beyond  the  sitting-room  that  she  was  so  sorry  to 
interfere  with  Dorothea,  but  really —  And  then 
Miss  Clara  would  rise  hastily,  and  go  and  tell  Doro 
thea  that  dear  Aunt  Mary  was  very  low  to-day,  and 
so  would  she  mind  not  practising? 

If  Dorothea  minded,  she  did  not  say  so.  Every 
thing  in  that  house  revolved  upon  Aunt  Mary — the 
"sick  Miss  Ferris,"  as  Old  Chester  called  her;  who, 
thirty  years  before,  upon  being  deserted  by  her  lover, 
had  taken  to  her  bed,  where  she  had  remained  ever 
since.  It  was  her  illness,  not  the  Ferris  money,  which 
made  the  two  ladies  so  important  in  Old  Chester. 
For,  of  course,  a  lady  whose  sensibilities  are  so 
delicate  as  to  keep  her  in  bed  for  thirty  years  is  an 
important  figure  in  this  unromantic  world. 

When  Dorothea  came  to  live  with  the  aunts  this 
family  scandal  and  grief  had  been  told  her  by 
Miss  Clara  in  a  proud,  hushed  voice.  "  Your  dear 
aunt  Mary  has  never  risen  (except  on  Saturdays, 
when  the  sheets  are  changed)  from  her  bed  since 
that  fateful  day ;  and  she  never  will,  until  she  is  car 
ried  hence." 

"But  what  is  the  matter,  Aunt  Clara?"  Dorothea 
said,  her  voice  hushed,  too,  from  its  pretty  girlish 
note.  "  Is  she  sick  ?" 

"  Sick  ?  No,  certainly  not.  Why  should  she  be 
sick?  I  am  sure  nobody  ever  had  more  constant 
care.  But  she  was  forsaken  at  the  altar,  and  her 
2  9 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

heart  was  broken.  It  has  remained  so.  Your  aunt 
Mary  is  so  delicate  and  refined  that  she  could  not 
recover  from  such  a  blow.  Refinement  is  a  charac 
teristic  of  the  females  of  our  family,  Dorothea.  Your 
aunt  Mary  would  not  move  even  on  Saturdays  but 
that  it  is  a  necessity ;  and  then  she  is  assisted,  as 
you  know,  to  a  couch."  This  Saturday  moving  was, 
to  tell  the  truth,  a  thorn  in  Miss  Ferris's  side  ;  she 
would  have  preferred  entire  helplessness.  "  But  she 
has  never  recovered,"  Miss  Clara  repeated  ;  "  she  is 
entirely  crushed." 

Thirty  years  !  Thirty  years  of  remembering  !  It 
was  dreadful  to  Dorothea  even  to  think  of ;  the 
pride  which  her  aunt  had  in  it  never  touched  her ; 
it  was  a  horror — the  old,  pallid,  waxen  face  there  on 
the  pillow  in  the  great  four-poster  in  the  best  bed 
room  ;  the  almost  helpless  limbs  lying  like  sticks  un 
der  the  covers  ;  the  thin  hands  that  were  cool,  like 
the  petals  of  a  faded  flower.  To  Dorothea  it  was 
all  ghastly  and  repulsive  ;  and  to  her  young  mind 
the  silent  house,  and  the  broken  heart,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  poplar  coming  and  going  across  the 
high  ceilings  of  the  empty  rooms,  came  to  be  all  a 
strange,  dreamlike  consciousness  of  something  dead 
near  her. 

It  was  into  this  life  that  Oscar  King  came  to  make 
love  to  Dorothea  —  came  like  a  torch  among  dead 
leaves.  Oscar  had  gone  away  from  Old  Chester  about 
the  time  that  the  younger  Miss  Ferris  took  to  her 
bed  with  a  broken  heart  —  some  five  years  before 
Dorothea  was  born ;  he  came  back  now,  fifty  years 
old,  a  handsome,  determined,  gen  tie -hearted  man, 
and  fell  in  love  with  Dorothea  the  very  first  Sunday 
that  he  saw  her  at  church.  Old  Chester,  regarding 

10 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

the  back  of  Oscar's  head  as  he  sat  in  the  rectory 
pew  that  first  Sunday,  speculated  a  good  deal  as  to 
his  future.  He  had  come  home  with  money,  it  was 
said,  and  he  probably  would  not  want  to  live  with 
his  brother,  Dr.  William  King,  whose  house  was  as 
small  as  his  income.  Old  Chester  chuckled  when  it 
said  this,  for  poor  Willy  King  labored  under  the 
disadvantage  of  having  been  known  in  his  youth — 
in  his  babyhood,  indeed  —  by  most  of  his  patients. 
And,  really,  you  can't  blame  Old  Chester ;  for,  when^ 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  it  is  hard  to  receive  your 
castor  oil  or  opodeldoc  from  one  to  whom  you  have 
administered  them — perhaps  with  spankings.  Nor 
was  it  likely  that  Oscar  would  want  to  settle  down 
and  live  with  his  elderly  sister,  Rachel,  and  her 
little  adopted  child,  who  would  doubtless  be  a 
nuisance  to  a  bachelor  like  Oscar — "  who  has  seen 
a  great  deal  of  the  world,  it  is  to  be  feared,"  Old 
Chester  said,  with  a  sigh.  No;  the  proper  thing 
for  Oscar  to  do  was  to  marry,  and  have  a  home  of 
his  own.  Old  Chester  was  prepared  to  give  him 
much  good  advice  on  this  subject :  There  was  Rose 
Knight,  a  nice  intelligent  girl,  not  too  pretty,  and 
a  good,  economical  house-keeper.  Or  Annie  Shields. 
On  the  whole,  Annie  Shields  was  perhaps  more  de 
sirable  ;  Annie  was  nearly  forty,  and  suitable  in 
every  respect.  "  She  has  such  admirable  common- 
sense  !"  Old  Chester  said,  warmly.  "How  comfort 
able  she  would  make  a  middle-aged  man  like  Oscar  ! 
Very  likely  he  has  rheumatism,  you  know,  or  some 
thing  the  matter  with  his  liver — he  has  been  knock 
ing  about  the  world  so  long.  Dear,  dear,  it's  to  be 
hoped  he  has  no  undesirable  habits !"  Old  Chester 
said,  sighing ;  "  but  certainly  Annie  is  just  the  wife 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

for  him."  And,  really,  Old  Chester's  advice  was  based 
on  reason  ;  therein  was  its  weakness.  Men  don't  fall 
in  love  with  women  from  considerations  of  reason. 
The  ability  to  sew  on  buttons,  and  nurse  husbands 
through  attacks  of  indigestion,  and  give  good  whole 
some  advice,  does  not  attract  the  male  mind ;  these 
evidences  of  good  sense  are  respected,  but  when  it 
comes  to  a  question  of  adoration — that  is  different : 
a  man  prefers  a  fool  every  time.  Well — well;  one 
of  these  days  we  may  understand  it :  meantime  we 
are  all  ready  to  sew  on  buttons,  and  keep  house,  and 
give  advice — while  Oscar  Kings  look  over  at  little, 
vague,  mindless  girls,  and  fall  in  love  with  them. 

"  Who  is  that  girl  who  sat  in  the  second  pew  from 
the  front,  and  looked  like  a  Botticelli  Madonna  ?" 
Mr.  King  said  to  Dr.  Lavendar,  when  he  went  home 
to  dinner  with  the  old  clergyman. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  Dorothea,"  Dr.  Lavendar 
said.  "  She  doesn't  look  like  any  of  your  popish  idols: 
she  is  a  good  child,  and  she  lives  with  the  Ferris  girls. 
They  are  sucking  the  life  out  of  her.  She  has  no 
more  will  of  her  own  than  a  wet  string.  I  wish  some 
body  would  run  off  with  her  !" 

"  I  will,"  said  Oscar  King,  promptly. 


Ill 

So  that  was  how  the  train  was  started  which  was 
to  cause  such  violent  disturbance  in  the  silent  house 
on  the  river  road. 

Oscar  King  lost  no  time  in  calling  on  the  Misses 
Ferris.  That  very  Sunday  afternoon  he  walked  out 
into  the  country,  through  the  warm  October  haze, 

7.2 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

and  pushed  open  the  clanging  iron  gate  at  the  foot 
of  the  Ferris  garden.  Then  he  stopped,  for  his  Bot 
ticelli  Madonna  was  standing  waist-deep  among  the 
golden  coreopsis  in  the  garden  border.  Oscar  King 
stood  still  and  looked  at  her,  and  said  to  himself  that 
he  had  found  his  wife.  If  any  one  had  asked  him  the 
reason  of  this  conviction  he  could  not  have  told 
them  ;  but  convictions  do  not  imply  reasons.  Look) 
at  women's  belief  in  their  husbands  ! 

He  went  forward,  abrupt  and  commonplace: 

"  I  am  Oscar  King  ;  and  I'm  sure  you  are  Miss 
Dorothea  Ferris.  I  saw  you  at  church  this  morn 
ing,  and  I  have  come  to  call  upon  your  aunts.  I 
wonder  if  this  is  the  orthodox  hour  for  calling  in 
Old  Chester  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  brightened  slowly 
through  some  vague  abstraction,  before  she  saw  him; 
then  she  seemed  a  little  frightened,  and  the  color 
came  into  her  cheek. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said,  in  a  fluttered  voice.  "Aunt 
Clara  is  in  the  parlor,  and — and  please  come  in." 
She  moved  through  the  yellow  cloud  of  coreopsis  and 
came  out  into  the  path  beside  him,  her  head  bending 
like  a  lily  on  its  stalk.  She  was  not  a  pretty  girl: 
she  had  the  high  forehead,  the  soft,  pale  hair,  parted 
and  smooth  on  each  side  of  her  brow,  the  delicate 
lips,  and,  most  of  all,  the  mild,  timid  eyes,  that  make 
a  type  too  colorless  for  prettiness.  But  Oscar  King, 
as  he  walked  beside  her  to  the  house  was  stirred 
through  and  through.  Why  ?  Who  can  say  !  If 
Beauty  and  the  Beast  is  unexplainable,  the  Beast  and 
Beauty  is  just  as  remarkable. 

Not  that  Oscar  was  in  the  least  a  beast ;  but  he 
was  a  big,  active,  masculine  creature,  and  this  pas- 

J3 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

sionless  girl  was  like  an  icicle  in  the  sunshine.  But, 
for  all  that,  he  wanted  her  ;  he  wanted,  then  and 
there,  to  lift  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her  pale  mouth. 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  you,"  he  said  to  himself, 
watching  her  while  she  opened  the  door  and  led  him 
into  the  dark  hall ;  "  I'm  going  to  marry  you,  you 
saint !" 

"  It  is  Mr.  Oscar  King,  Aunt  Clara,"  Dorothea 
said,  in  her  little,  retreating  voice.  And  then  she 
went  and  sat  down  in  a  corner.  Oscar  did  not  see 
her  look  at  him  again  that  whole  hour  of  his  call, 
though  he  prolonged  it  from  moment  to  moment 
hoping  that  she  would  just  once  lift  those  vague  soft 
eyes  to  his. 

Miss  Ferris  had  received  her  caller  with  a  frigid 
bend  of  her  body  from  the  waist ;  then  she  sat  down 
on  a  straight  chair,  her  hands  locked  upon  her  lap, 
her  lips  pressed  together,  and  waited  for  him  to  begin 
the  conversation. 

"How  is  Miss  Mary?"  he  asked,  cordially;  "I 
hope  I  may  see  her." 

"  I  thank  you.  My  sister  is  as  usual.  Entirely 
crushed." 

"  Crushed  ?"  Oscar  said,  puzzled. 

"  You  have  forgotten,"  Miss  Clara  said,  icily,  "  that 
my  sister  was  deserted  at  the  altar.  She  has  never 
recovered." 

Oscar  King  was  sympathetic,  and  murmured  his 
hope  that  Miss  Mary  might  soon  "get  about.  A 
man  who  would  do  that  is  not  worth  regretting  I"  he 
said,  warmly. 

"  Men  do  very  strange  things,"  Miss  Clara  Ferris 
said,  with  precise  and  cold  significance.  Oscar  King 
took  puzzled.  Miss  Clara  grew  colder  and  more 

14 


"  SHE    SEEMED  'A    TALL    WHITE   LILY,'    HE   SAID 


THE  PROMISES  OF  DOROTHEA 

monosyllabic.  But  it  was  not  until  she  responded 
to  the  proposal  that  he  should  some  day  bring  some 
photographs  to  show  Miss  Mary,  by  saying,  "  I  thank 
you  ;  my  sister  does  not  care  for  photographs,"  that 
he  felt  departure  was  no  longer  a  matter  of  choice. 

"Well,  I  am  afraid  I  must  go,"  he  said,  rising,  the 
frank  regret  of  his  voice  and  eyes  all  directed  to 
Dorothea,  who  sat  by  the  window,  never  once  look 
ing  towards  him.  "  Won't  you  come  out  and  give 
me  a  bunch  of  those  yellow  daisy  flowers  ?"  he  asked 
her.  This  was  a  burst  of  inspiration,  for  Oscar  King 
did  not  know  one  flower  from  another.  Miss  Clara 
opened  her'  lips,  but  Dorothea  replied  before  her  : 

"Oh  yes,  if  you  would  like  some." 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Ferris,"  said  Oscar,  blithely. 
"  Next  time  I  come  I  hope  I  can  see  Miss  Mary." 

"  I  thank  you.  My  sister  is — "  began  Miss  Clara, 
but  the  unwelcome  caller  was  already  in  the  hall, 
saying  something  eagerly  to  Dorothea. 

In  the  garden  he  prolonged  the  flower -picking 
process  by  minute  and  critical  choice,  and  he  talked 
every  moment,  plunging  at  once  into  personalities. 
He  told  her  how  pleasant  it  was  to  be  back  in  Old 
Chester  again,  to  see  all  his  old  friends — "and  make 
a  new  one,  perhaps,"  he  said.  He  asked  her  about 
herself :  was  she  lonely  ?  had  she  many  interests  ? 
might  he  come  and  see  her?  was  she  willing  to  have 
a  new  friend  ?  Then  he  told  her  that  she  had  seem 
ed,  as  she  stood  among  the  coreopsis  when  he  came 
in, like  a  flower — "a  tall  white  lily,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  quick,  almost  rough  beginning  of  his 
wooing,  these  personalities.  Dorothea,  hardly  an 
swering,  hardly  daring  to  look  at  him,  her  color  ris 
ing  and  paling,  felt  as  though  she  had  been  caught 

15 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

in  a  great  wind  that  was  whirling  her  along,  aston 
ished  and  helpless. 

"Yes;"  "No;"  " I  think  so" — she  faltered  to  this 
or  that  tempestuous  assertion  ;  her  thoughts  were 
all  confused.  Suddenly  into  the  monotonous  drift 
of  her  silent  life  had  come,  in  a  day,  in  an  hour — 
"since  dinner-time,"  she  said  to  herself,  this — what? 
Dorothea  had  no  terms  ;  but  she  was  a  woman,  and 
something  in  her  knew  that  this  torrent  of  words, 
these  kind,  warm  looks,  this  big  pressure  of  his  hand 
when  he  went  away,  meant — something.  The  girl 
was  really  breathless  when  she  went  back,  alone,  to 
the  house. 

"  Dorothea  !"  Miss  Clara  called,  from  her  aunt 
Mary's  room. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Clara,"  she  said,  obediently. 

The  two  aunts  were  evidently  agitated.  Miss  Mary's 
face  was  flushed  ;  Miss  Clara  was  pale. 

"  Dorothea,"  said  Miss  Clara,  "  do  you  know  who 
that  person  was  who  has  just  been  here  ?" 

"  Mr.  King?"  the  girl  said,  hesitating. 

"  Yes.  My  dear  Dorothea,  he  is  an  improper  per 
son." 

"  Oh,  Clara — "  the  invalid  remonstrated. 

"  My  dear,  allow  me  to  speak.  Mr.  King  has  lived 
,  away  from  Old  Chester  for  thirty  years,  in  foreign 
7  parts  ;  and  no  one  knows  what  has  gone  on  /" 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  that  before  Doro 
thea,"  sighed  Miss  Mary. 

"  Dorothea  doesn't  know  what  I  mean,"  Miss  Fer 
ris  replied  ;  "  but  you  and  I  know.  A  man  who  has 
lived  away  from  home  for  thirty  years  is  a  suspicious 
person.  I  consider  that  it  was  a  great  liberty  on 
his  part  to  call.  He  had  forgotten  your  unhappy 

16 


THE  PROMISES  OF  DOROTHEA 

affair.  He  said  he  hoped  you  would  'soon  get 
about.' " 

"  I  wish  I  might,"  Miss  Mary  said,  faintly. 

Miss  Ferris  snorted  with  contempt.  "  It  showed 
a  coarse  mind.  He  has  no  understanding  of  the 
delicacy  of  a  lady's  feelings." 

Miss  Mary  sighed. 

"Of  course  you  will  never  'get  about';  but  he  had 
forgotten  the  whole  matter.  It  just  shows  what  sort 
of  a  man  he  is  I  You  must  be  polite  to  every  one, 
Dorothea.  But  you  must  always  disapprove  of  im 
proper  persons." 

"  Oh  yes,  Aunt  Clara,"  said  Dorothea. 


IV 

Oscar  King  may  have  lived  in  foreign  parts,  and 
"  no  one  have  known  what  went  on"  but  he  was  still 
sufficiently  of  Old  Chester  to  realize  that  he  must 
inform  himself  upon  Miss  Mary  Ferris's  condition, 
if  he  would  make  himself  pleasing  to  the  family. 
Hence  he  made  it  his  business  to  see  Dr.  Lavendar, 
and  be  refreshed  as  to  facts.  The  old  minister  was 
very  communicative  ;  he  remembered  perfectly  that 
June  day,  thirty  years  ago,  when  he  in  his  surplice 
waited  in  the  vestry,  and  Mary  Ferris  in  bridal  white 
waited  in  the  vestibule  —  waited,  and  waited,  and 
heard  through  the  open  windows  the  buzz  of  the  bees 
in  the  locust-tree,  and  by-and-bythe  murmur  of 
wonder  from  the  wedding  -  guests  in  the  church. 
Then  had  come  the  word  that  the  man  had  fled. 
"And  I  had  to  tell  that  poor  girl !  That's  what  min 
isters  and  doctors  are  for,  I  suppose  —  to  do  other 

17 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

men's  dirty  work.  It  was  like  putting  a  knife  into 
some  helpless  dumb  creature's  throat  to  tell  her. 
Well,  we  took  her  home.  She  was  sick  for  weeks. 
Then  she  began  to  revive,  poor  soul ;  but  the  affair 
had  taken  hold  of  Clara's  imagination,  and  she  kept 
saying  that  Mary  was  crushed.  As  soon  as  she  saw 
any  tendency  to  rise,  she  sat  on  her,  so  to  speak.  It 
has  been  the  one  interest  of  Clara  Ferris's  life.  It 
has  been  something  for  her  to  talk  about,  you  know 
— Mary's  delicacy  and  refinement.  Then  the  brother 
died — you  remember  Algernon  Ferris  ? — and  his  lit 
tle  girl  came  to  them.  Dorothea  was  twelve  then  ; 
she's  twenty-five  now,  though  you  wouldn't  think 
it.  She's  '  crushed,'  just  as  poor  Mary  is.  I  wish  I 
knew  how  to  save  the  child  ;  it's  an  unnatural  life." 

"  I'm  going  to  marry  her,"  Oscar  said,  thought 
fully  ;  "  I  hope  that  will  save  her." 

Dr.  Lavendar  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  My 
boy,  you'll  be  a  Perseus  to  Andromeda !  Couldn't 
you  manage  to  take  Mary  too  ?" 

"  I'll  leave  her  for  you,  sir,"  Oscar  informed  him, 
gravely. 

When  Mr.  King  next  presented  himself  at  the 
Ferris  house,  it  was  with  diplomatic  commiseration 
for  the  lady  whose  heart  had  been  so  irreparably 
broken.  Miss  Clara  became  slightly  less  icy  at  this 
interest,  though  her  doubts  concerning  his  European 
exile  never  faded. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  made  several  calls  that 
she  began  to  have  certain  dark  suspicions :  Could 
it  be  that  Mr.  King  meant  to  include  Dorothea  in 
his  visits  ?  The  day  that  this  possibility  changed 
into  probability,  Miss  Clara  was  standing  at  her  sis 
ter's  window,  looking  down  at  Oscar  King  saying 

18 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

good-bye  to  Dorothea  on  the  front  steps.  His  fare 
wells  took  a  long  time,  it  must  be  admitted.  He 
stood  on  the  door-steps  talking  and  talking ;  then, 
suddenly,  he  reached  out  (this  was  what  Miss  Clara 
saw)  and  took  Dorothea's  hand  and  held  it,  saying 
something  which  made  the  girl  turn  away  a  little, 
and  put  her  other  hand  up  to  her  eyes. 

"Good  heavens  I"  said  Miss  Clara,  and  sat  down 
as  though  faint. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  the  younger  sister  from  the 
bed.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  Oh,  if  I  had  my  legs  !" 

"You  haven't,  and  you  never  will  have,"  Miss  Fer 
ris  replied,  faintly ;  "  and  the  reason  of  it  is  the  same 
as — as  what's  going  on  now  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  He  has  taken  a  liberty  with  Dorothea  ;  that's 
what  I  mean  !  I  saw  him  saying  good-bye.  '  Good 
bye  '.' — he  didn't  say  good-bye  to  me  that  way  ;  he 
held  her  hand — " 

"  They  do  that,"  murmured  the  other. 

"  It  is  terrible  1  There — he's  gone.  I  heard  the 
gate  close.  Well,  it  is  time,"  said  Miss  Ferris,  in  an 
awful  voice — "it  is  time.  I  shall  speak  to  Dorothea 
at  once." 

"  Oh,  sister,"  protested  the  other,  "  I  wouldn't. 
Perhaps  he  didn't  mean  anything.  And  suppose  he 
did  ?  It's  nothing  wrong — " 

"  Nothing  wrong  !  Well,  Mary,  I  don't  know  what 
you  call  its  effect  on  you — " 

"  But  it  isn't  always  so,"  said  Miss  Mary,  beginning 
to  cry ;  "  and  if  she  loves  him — " 

"  She  doesn't.  She  is  too  young  —  he  has  been 
abroad — no  one  knows — "  Miss  Clara  was  so  agi 
tated  that  she  was  incoherent.  "  I  must  compose 

19 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

myself  before  speaking  to  her,"  she  said.  u  I  will  go 
to  my  chamber  for  a  little  while,  and  then  she  may 
come  to  me." 

She  passed  Dorothea  in  the  large  sitting-room, 
into  which  Miss  Mary  Ferris's  bedroom  opened,  but 
she  was  too  disturbed  to  look  at  the  girl.  Perhaps 
it  was  as  well.  Dorothea's  face  was  burning ;  her 
eyes  shone,  but  they  were  dazed,  and  there  was  a 
glitter  of  tears  in  them.  She  took  up  some  work 
and  went  over  to  her  little  window -seat,  but  she 
walked  as  one  in  a  dream. 

"  Dorothea  !"  Miss  Mary  called,  in  her  weak,  flute- 
like  voice. 

The  girl  started,  and  answered,  tremulously. 

"  Come  in  here,  my  child,"  the  old  aunt  said.  Dor 
othea  came,  still  blushing,  and  with  dazzled  eyes. 

Old  Miss  Mary  Ferris  lay  back  on  her  pillows, 
frail  and  faintly  pretty,  like  some  little  winter-blos 
soming  rose ;  all  these  years  of  having  been  shut  out 
from  the  sun  and  wind  of  daily  living  had  not  made 
her  ill ;  they  had  only  "preserved"  her,  as  it  were. 

She  looked  up  at  Dorothea  with  strange  curiosity, 
as  perhaps  the  dead  look  upon  the  living. 

"Dorothea,  your  aunt  Clara  says — she  thinks  she 
saw — tell  me,  is  it  so  ?  Did  he — speak  ?"  Her  eager, 
shivering  voice  was  like  the  touch  of  something 
cold.  . 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Aunt  Mary,"  Dor 
othea  faltered. 

"  Did  he  speak  of — love  ?"  She  took  the  girl's  limp 
little  hand  in  her  own  cool,  satin-smooth  ringers,  and 
pulled  her,  with  a  vampirelike  strength,  until  she  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"  I  think  so,"  Dorothea  stammered. 
20 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

Miss  Mary  dropped  her  hand  and  covered  her  own 
face. 

"  Oh,  Dorothea  !  it  is  so  long  ago  !  Do  you  love 
him  ?  Tell  me." 

"  I — I  don't  know,  Aunt  Mary." 

"  Did  it  make  you  happy  to  have  him  speak  to 
you  ?" 

"I — think  so,"  Dorothea  said,  crying. 

"Then,"  Miss  Mary  said,  "you  love  him";  and 
stared  at  her  with  vague  eyes  that  seemed  to  look 
beyond  her  ;  "  you — love  him." 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  turned  over  on  her 
side  ;  she  seemed  to  forget  Dorothea. 

It  was  a  pity  Miss  Clara  should  have  sent  for  the 
child  just  then  ;  she  was  like  some  little  weak  chick 
en  being  helped,  perhaps  a  little  roughly,  out  of  its 
shell ;  and  now  the  assistance  ceased. 

Miss  Clara  was  quite  composed  when  Dorothea 
came  into  her  bedroom  to  stand  before  her  and  an 
swer  her  searching  questions.  There  was  a  moment 
of  awful  silence  before  the  questions  began.  Miss 
Clara  sat  in  a  big  chintz-covered  arm-chair,  which 
had  side  pieces  like  ears,  against  which  she  leaned  her 
head,  overcome  by  emotion  and  fatigue.  Dorothea 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  following  with  nervous 
fingers  the  carving  of  a  pineapple  on  the  tester-post ; 
she  was  twenty-five  years  old,  but  she  looked  eigh 
teen. 

"  Dorothea,"  Miss  Clara  said,  "  I  saw  the  gentle 
man  who  called  this  morning  upon  your  aunt  and 
me,  speaking  to  you  in  the  porch.  I  observed  him 
take  your  hand.  Why  did  he  do  this,  Dorothea  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Aunt  Clara,"  the  girl  said,  panting. 

j4  You  are  young,  and,  very  properly,  inexperienced, 
21 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

my  dear,  therefore  you  do  not  know  why  such  things 
arc  done,  nor  what  they  portend.  But,  my  dear,  I 
would  not  be  doing  my  duty  to  my  dead  brother's 
child  if  I  did  not  tell  you  that  it  was  a  liberty  on  Mr. 
King's  part ;  and  warn  you  that  that  was  the  way 
your  dear  aunt  Mary  began.  And  see  the  result !  I 
do  not,  of  course,  mean  to  imply  that  gentlemen's  at 
tentions  invariably  end  in  this  way.  But  the  person 
who  called  here  this  morning  has  lived  abroad  for 
many  years,  and  we  do  not  know  what  has  gone  on. 
Therefore  I  do  not  wish  you  to  permit  him  to  take 
such  liberties,  or  say  good-bye  to  you  again  in  this 
manner.  I  trust  no  words  were  uttered  that  I  should 
have  objected  to  ?" 

Dorothea  turned  red,  and  white,  and  red  again. 

"  Dorothea !  Did  he  say  anything  to  lead  you  to 
suppose  that  he  entertained  sentiments  of  affection 
for  you?" 

"  I  think  so,"  Dorothea  confessed,  beginning  to 
cry. 

"  I  am  shocked  !  I  hope,  I  trust,  you  answered  as 
your  poor  aunt  Mary's  niece  should  ?  What  did  you 
say?" 

"  I  said— I  didn't  know." 

"  Didn't  know  what  ?  You  don't  know  anything, 
of  course.  But  what  was  it  that  you  *  didn't  know  '  ?" 

"  He  asked  me  if  I — cared.  And  I  said  I  didn't — 
know."  Miss  Clara  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Very  proper,  my  dear.  Of  course  you  don't 
know.  But  I  know,  and  I  will  tell  you  :  you  do  not 
care,  Dorothea.  I  have  read  all  the  best  books  on 
Uhe  subject  of  love,  besides  having  observed  your 
dear  aunt,  and  I  am  able  to  judge,  as  you  are  not, 
whether  a  young  woman  cares.  I  rejoice  that  you 

22 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

do  not,  for  I  should  feel  it  necessary  to  say  that  you 
must  at  once  desist.  But  as  you  do  not,  all  is  well." 

Dorothea  did  not  look  as  though  all  were  well ; 
Miss  Clara's  voice  took  a  note  of  anxiety. 

"  There  are  many  ways  of  judging  of  the  state  of 
a  young  lady's  affections  ;  many  tests  ;  for  instance, 
do  you,  or  do  you  not,  feel  that  if  this  person  went 
away,  you  would  be  heart-broken,  like  your  dear  aunt 
Mary,  and  would  lie,  as  she  has  done,  for  thirty  years, 
crushed  by  grief,  upon  your  bed?" 

"  Oh  no.  Aunt  Clara,"  the  girl  said,  shrinking ; 
"  no,  I  couldn't." 

"  Well,  you  see  !"  said  Miss  Clara,  triumphantly. 
"  Now,  my  dear,  that  settles  it ;  so  think  no  more  of 
the  matter.  It  is  very  indelicate  for  a  young  lady  to 
dwell  on  such  subjects.  I  will  communicate  with 
Mr  King,  and  then  we  will  say  no  more  about  it ;  but 
promise  me  to  remember  what  I  have  told  you." 

"  Oh  yes,  Aunt  Clara,"  said  Dorothea,  wretchedly, 
"  I  promise." 

And  then  Miss  Ferris  kissed  her,  and  tapped  her 
cheek  playfully,  and  all  was  pleasant  again. 


Miss  Ferris  lost  no  time  in  communicating  with 
Mr.  King.  Her  letter,  couched  in  majestic  but  most 
genteel  phrase,  reached  him  Friday  evening  ;  and 
Oscar,  in  his  room  at  the  tavern,  read  it,  standing  by 
the  lamp,  his  shadow  falling,  wavering  and  gigantic, 
on  the  wall  behind  him.  Then  he  sat  down  in  one 
of  the  rickety  chairs,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
thrust  his  feet  out  straight  in  front  of  him,  and 

23 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

thought  hard  for  ten  minutes.  Then  he  rose  with  a 
spring  that  made  the  lamp  flare,  and  went  whistling 
about  the  room. 

"  I  won't  waste  time  at  my  age,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "  First  I'll  see  the  aunt ;  then  I'll  see  Dr.  Lav- 
endar  ;  then  I'll  see— /^r>" 

He  saw  the  aunt  that  night,  and  received  her  as 
surances  that  Dorothea  was  indifferent  to  him ;  but 
that  if  she  were  not,  her  aunts  would  not  permit  her 
to  regard  him  with  sentiments  of  esteem. 

"  You  are  not  suited  to  my  niece,"  said  Miss  Clara, 
"  and  I  cannot  but  regard  it  as  a  liberty  on  your 
part  to  address  her.  You  are  much  older  than  she, 
and  you  have  lived  abroad  very  many  years." 

"  I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  it,"  Dor 
othea's  lover  insisted. 

Miss  Clara  pursed  up  her  lips  and  looked  modest. 

"  Well,  Miss  Ferris,  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  argu 
ing  such  a  question  ;  and,  after  all,  Dorothea  must 
be  her  own  judge." 

"My  niece's  judgment  always  coincides  with 
mine,"  said  Miss  Clara,  rising. 

Oscar  King  rose  too,  smiling.  "  Well,  I  will  abide 
by  her  judgment." 

"  I  hardly  see  how  you  can  do  otherwise,"  Miss 
Clara  commented,  dryly. 

"T/iat's  over,"  Mr.  King  said  to  himself  as  he 
strode  along  in  the  dusk  to  the  rectory.  But  the 
second  part  of  the  programme  was  not  so  quickly 
carried  out ;  it  was  midnight  before  he  came  out 
into  the  moonlight  again  and  went  back  to  his  room 
in  the  tavern. 

"  Sunday  morning — Dorothea  !"  he  said  to  himself. 
24 


THE    PROMISES    OP    DOROTHEA 

"  But  if  the  aunt  comes  to  church  with  her,  I'll  have 
to  wait  another  twenty-four  hours.  Confound  the 
old  lady  !" 

But  Miss  Clara  had  no  thought  of  going  to  church. 
A  small  cold  rain  began  to  fall  at  dawn,  and  she 
would  have  been  horrified  at  the  idea  of  taking  the 
horses  out,  and  of  course  at  her  time  of  life  she  could 
not  go  trudging  along  the  country  road  under  an 
umbrella,  as  Dorothea  might ;  but,  besides  that,  Miss 
Ferris  was  quite  prostrated  by  her  interview  of  Fri 
day  night. 

"I  am  suffering  because  I  have  defended  you, 
Dorothea,"  she  said, faintly, to  her  niece  ;  "but  I  am 
sure  you  are  grateful,  my  dear,  and  that  is  all  I 
want." 

But  when  did  youth  know  gratitude  ?  Dorothea 
only  murmured,  "  Yes,  Aunt  Clara,"  in  a  wretched 
voice. 

In  these  days,  when  young  people  not  only  have 
opinions,  but  express  them,  unasked,  Dorothea's  un 
resisting  plasticity  seems  scarcely  natural.  But  that 
only  means  that  Old  Chester  is  not  of  these  days.  The 
girl  who  makes  one  think  of  a  violet  still  exists  there. 
Dorothea  was  silenced,  trembling  like  a  little  bird  in 
some  strong  hand,  just  because  her  aunt  did  not  hap 
pen  to  approve  of  the  man  who  made  love  to  her,  and 
whom  she — would  one  say  "loved"?  The  fact  is, 
the  man  who  falls  in  love  with  one  of  these  negative 
young  creatures  hardly  takes  the  trouble  to  ask 
whether  she  loves  him  ;  he  loves  her.  And  he  wants 
to  have  her  for  his  wife — to  do  as  he  wishes,  to  think 
as  he  thinks,  to  echo  his  opinions,  and  to  admire  his 
conduct ;  gentle,  silent,  yielding — such  a  combination 
is  almost  the  same  as  adoring.  At  all  events,  it  an- 
3  25 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

swers  just  as  well,  in  the  domestic  circle.  And  it 
wears  better,  conjugally. 

Anyhow,  Oscar  King  had  made  up  his  mind. 
Poor  little  Dorothea  had  no  mind  to  make  up  ;  so 
she  walked  along  to  church  in  the  fine  chill  rain, 
feeling  a  lump  in  her  throat,  and  her  eyes  blurring 
so  that  once  or  twice  a  hot  tear  overflowed,  and  ran 
down  her  cold,  rain  -  wet  cheek.  Dorothea's  little 
heart  was  beating  and  swelling  with  misery  and 
wonder  and  joy  ;  but  if  one  had  said  the  word 
"  love  "  to  her,  she  would  not  have  recognized  it. 
She  was  very  wretched  when  she  reached  the 
church  ;  she  knelt  down  and  hid  her  face,  and 
swallowed  hard  to  get  rid  of  the  tears  ;  then  she 
took  her  prayer-book  and  read  the  marriage  service, 
and  thought  that  it  was  not  for  her.  If  Dorothea 
had  not  been  so  entirely  behind  the  times,  she  would 
have  decided  to  enter  a  sisterhood,  or  go  and  nurse 
lepers.  As  it  was,  she  only  saw  before  her  long,  pale 
years  of  obedience,  and  silence,  and  thin,  cold  au 
tumnal  rains.  Yet  all  the  time  that  her  inward  eye 
was  fixed  on  Melancholy  she  was  giving  swift,  low 
glances  about  the  dark  church.  And  when  she  saw 
Oscar  in  the  rectory  pew,  a  wave  of  lovely  color  rose 
and  spread  up  to  her  smooth  forehead,  and  down  to 
the  nape  of  her  neck,  and  her  hands  trembled,  and 
she  could  not  see  whether  the  psalter  for  the  day 
was  for  morning  or  evening  prayer. 

After  all,  there  is  nothing  like  that  first  wonderful 
beginning  of  love.  But,  nevertheless,  when  the  girl 
is  just  that  sort  of  girl  that  a  man  like  Oscar  King 
wants,  she  does  not  know  that  it  is  love ;  she  only 
knows  it  is  pain. 

Oscar  waited  for  her  at  the  porch  door,  and 
26 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

opened  her  umbrella  in  the  most  matter-of-fact 
way. 

"  I  am  going  to  walk  home  with  you." 

"  Oh— I  don't  think  Aunt  Clara  would  like  it,"  she 
protested,  faintly. 

"  But  I'm  not  going  tD  walk  home  with  Aunt 
Clara.  Dorothea,  won't  you  look  at  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  think  I'd — rather  not,"  poor  Dorothea  said, 
trembling. 

"  Dear,  your  aunt  Clara  won't  let  you  be  engaged," 
he  said,  guiding  her  steps  along  the  church-yard  path 
to  the  street—"  (look  out  !  there  is  a  puddle  ;  come 
over  here).  She  won't  let  us  be  engaged,  and  so  we 
are  going  to  be  married." 

"Oh,  Mr.  King!" 

"Yes,  you  little  love.     To-morrow  morning." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  King,  Aunt  Clara—" 

"  Never  mind  Aunt  Clara.  I  only  wish  Miss  Mary 
could  come  to  the  wedding — " 

"  She  can't,"  poor  Dorothea  said,  panting,  seeing  a 
possible  means  of  escape  ;  "  she  has  never  been  out 
of  bed,  you  know,  since  the  time  she  was  going  to  be 
married — " 

"  Well,  you  see,  dear,  how  dangerous  it  is  not  to  be 
married.  To-morrow  morning  you  are  to  meet  me, 
and  we'll  go  to  Dr.  Lavendar." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  King,  I  can't,  I  can't  /"  Her  anguished 
tone  of  fright  went  to  his  heart. 

"  You  little  sweetheart  !  I  hate  to  have  you  wor 
ry  about  it  for  twenty-four  hours  longer  ;  I  wish  it 
could  be  to-day  ;  but  the  license  is  made  out  for  to 
morrow.  Dearest,  you  are  to  walk  along  the  river 
road  about  nine  o'clock." 

"  Oh,Aunt  Clara  won't  allow  me  to,  I'm  sure," she  said. 
27 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"Well,  then,  dear,  we  will  have  to  go  right  back 
to  Dr.  Lavendar  now,"  he  told  her,  with  his  kind, 
determined  smile.  "  Promise  to  meet  me,  darling, 
or  I'll  have  to  get  married  at  once."  He  stood  still, 
looking  down  at  her,  amused  and  threatening. 

44  Oh,  I'll  promise  just  to  meet  you,"  she  said, 
faintly. 

44  Ah,  you  little  love,  you  little  angel  !"  he  mur 
mured  ;  and  did  nothing  but  talk  this  masculine 
baby -talk  all  the  way  to  the  Misses  Ferris's  gate, 
Dorothea  blushing,  and  murmuring  little  soft, 
frightened  44  Ohs." 

44  You  will  meet  me  at  nine  to-morrow  morning  at 
the  bend  in  the  road,"  he  said  when  he  left  her, 
44  and  then  we'll  talk  things  over." 

44 1  don't  mind  just  talking,"  she  said, 4<  but — that 
other  thing — " 

44  Oh,  that  doesn't  need  to  be  talked  about,"  he  re 
assured  her  ;  44  now  promise,  dearest,  to  meet  me,  or 
I'll  have  to  come  into  the  house  with  you  now.  I 
won't  leave  you  until  you  promise." 

44  Oh,  please  /"  poor  Dorothea  said.  4t  Oh  yes,  Mr. 
King,  I'll  promise.  But  I  don't  know  how — but  yes, 
yes.  Oh,  please,  go  away.  I  promise." 


VI 

Dorothea  slipped  into  the  house,  noiselessly,  but 
as  she  closed  the  front  door  softly  behind  her  she 
heard  an  awful  voice  : 

44  Dorothea  /" 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  two  other  words 
dropped  from  the  upper  landing : 

23 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

"  Come  here." 

The  girl  felt  her  heart  really  and  literally  sink  in 
her  breast.  Her  lips  grew  dry,  and  her  breath  flut 
tered  in  her  throat  so  that  she  could  not  speak.  She 
came  into  Miss  Clara's  room  and  stood,  her  eyes 
downcast,  guilt  in  every  line  of  her  face. 

Miss  Ferris  was  sitting  very  erect  in  her  big  chair. 

"  Dorothea,  I  observed  you  from  my  chamber 
window." 

The  girl  looked  at  a  little  hole  in  her  glove  ;  her 
hands  trembled. 

"  Dorothea,  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  ask  you,  what 
do  you  mean  by  such  conduct  ?" 

"  What  conduct,  Aunt  Clara  ?"  asked  Dorothea,  in 
a  very  little  voice. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  observed  you  !  Do  not  seek  to  de 
ceive  me  and  add  the  sin  of  a  lie  to  that  of  impro 
priety  !" 

The  girl  swallowed,  took  off  her  glove,  and  pulled 
the  fingers  smooth  and  straight. 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  Dorothea  ?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Clara." 

"  Then  see  that  you  heed  me.  I  am  pained  and 
humiliated  to  find  that  it  is  necessary  to  instruct  a 
niece  of  mine,  a  niece  of  your  aunt  Mary's  —  your 
aunt  Mary,  so  refined  that  her  disappointment  at  the 
altar  laid  her  upon  her  couch,  from  which  she  has 
never  risen — (except  on  Saturdays).  I  am  pained, 
Dorothea,  to  have  to  tell  her  niece  that  when  a 
young  woman  refuses  a  gentleman,  it  is  not  becom 
ing  to  walk  home  from  church  with  him  afterwards. 
It  is  indelicate.  It  is  immodest.  He  takes  a  liber 
ty  when  he  offers  to  accompany  her.  Need  I  say 
more  ?" 

29 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"Oh  no,  Aunt  Clara." 

But  Miss  Clara  said  more  : 

"  I  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  forbid  your 
seeing  this  person.  I  had  not,  for  that  matter, 
thought  it  necessary  to  forbid  your  stealing,  or 
murdering  ;  all  the  females  of  our  family  have  been 
perfectly  modest  and  delicate,  so  I  did  not  suppose 
such  a  command  necessary.  But  it  appears  that  I 
was  mistaken.  It  is  necessary.  I  forbid  your  seeing 
this — person.  Do  you  hear  me,  Dorothea?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Dorothea,  deadly  pale, 
lifted  her  terror  -  stricken  eyes  to  her  aunt's  face, 
and  then  looked  down  again,  speechless. 

"  I  regret,"  said  Miss  Clara,  with  dreadful  polite 
ness,  "  that  I  must  ask  you  to  promise  this.  It  ap 
pears,  if  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  so,  that 
otherwise  I  cannot  trust  you." 

Still  silence. 

"  Come,  Dorothea,  let  us  have  no  further  delay. 
Promise." 

Dorothea's  face  suddenly  quivered  ;  her  voice 
broke,  steadied,  and  broke  again. 

"I  think— I  won't,  Aunt  Clara." 

"  Won't  what  ?     Won't  see  him  ?" 

"Won't  promise,  Aunt  Clara." 

Miss  Ferris,  her  lips  parted  to  speak,  stared  at  this 
turning  worm. 

"  You— won't  ?" 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  not,  please,  Aunt  Clara." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Because  I — promised  I  would." 

There  are  no  exclamation  points  which  can  tell 
Miss  Clara  Ferris's  astonishment. 

"  You  promised  him  ?" 

30 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

44  Yes,  Aunt  Clara." 

"  You  had  no  right  to  make  such  a  promise  ; 
therefore  you  must  break  it.  Do  you  hear  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Clara." 

"Very  well ;  then  promise." 

" 1  think— I  won't." 

There  was  a  moment  of  stunned  silence.  Miss 
Ferris  opened  and  closed  her  lips  in  a  breathless 
sort  of  way.  And  certainly  the  situation  was  try 
ing.  The  sensation  of  finding  a  command  of  no 
avail  is  to  the  mind  what  sitting  down  upon  a  sud 
denly  withdrawn  chair  is  to  the  body.  Miss  Ferris 
said,  faintly, 

"  Dorothea,  do  you  mean  to  defy  me  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  Aunt  Clara  !" 

"  Then  you  will  promise  me  not  to  see  or  speak  to 
this  bad  man  again.  He  is  a  bad  man,  to  have  pro 
duced  in  a  hitherto  obedient  girl  such  awful,  such 
wicked,  such — such  indelicate  conduct !" 

She  waited  ;  she  dared  not  risk  another  command, 
but  she  waited.  There  was  no  reply. 

The  silence  grew  embarrassing.  And  with  the  em 
barrassment  there  was  the  bewilderment  of  discover 
ing  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  which  can  be 
quite  so  obstinate  as  a  yielding,  mild,  opinionless  girl. 

"Is  this  all  you  have  to  say?"  Miss  Ferris  de 
manded.  She  paused ;  still  silence.  Then  she  amend 
ed  her  question,  to  save  her  dignity. 

"//"this  is  all  you  have  to  say,  you  may  retire  to 
your  chamber.  I  hope  reflection  and  prayer — you 
need  not  come  down  to  dinner — will  bring  you  to  a 
better  frame  of  mind." 

She  waved  a  trembling  hand  in  the  direction  of  the 
door,  and  Dorothea  fled. 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

It  was  well  that  no  clairvoyance  made  it  possible 
for  Oscar  King  to  see  his  sweetheart  lying,  crying 
and  shivering,  upon  her  bed  that  long,  dreary,  rainy 
Sunday  afternoon.  He  might  have  relented,  and 
repented  having  wrung  a  promise  from  her  ;  or  he 
might  have  stormed  the  cold,  silent  house,  and  car 
ried  her  off,  then  and  there. 


VII 

Probably  Miss  Ferris  trusted  for  obedience  to  the 
traditions  of  the  past  ;  at  all  events,  she  did  not  lock 
Dorothea's  door.  What  prayer  and  reflection  might 
have  accomplished,  in  connection  with  a  key,  who  can 
tell  ?  As  it  was,  the  next  morning,  Dorothea,  white 
and  trembling,  came  down-stairs,  and  went  quietly 
out  of  the  house.  The  child  was  not  clandestine ; 
she  proposed  returning  in  the  same  open  way.  She 
also  proposed  telling  Mr.  King  that  she  would  make 
no  more  promises. 

It  was  a  dull,  dark  day  ;  the  mud  on  the  river  road 
was  ankle-deep  ;  in  the  woods  shreds  of  mist  had 
caught  on  the  bare  branches,  and  the  clouds  hung 
low  and  bleak  behind  the  hills. 

Oscar  King  sat  in  a  buggy  drawn  up  at  the  side  of 
the  road,  just  out  of  sight  of  the  Ferris  house.     He 
flecked  with  his  whip  at  the  dripping  branches  of 
/a  chestnut,  or  neatly  cut  off  the  withered  top  of  a 
i  stalk  of  golden-rod,  and  all  the  while  he  looked  in- 
/  tently  down  the  road.     When  he  saw  her  coming  his 
face  lighted  ;  he  jumped  out,  backed  his  horse  a  lit 
tle,  and  turned  the  wheel. 

'*  You  darling  !     Come,  get  in." 
32 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

"  Get  in  ?"  faltered  Dorothea  ;  but  already  he  had 
lifted  her  like  a  feather  and  put  her  on  the  seat. 

"  Sweet,  everything  is  arranged.  Here,  let  me  tuck 
this  rubber  apron  around  your  little  feet.  I  suppose 
it  didn't  occur  to  you  to  bring  any  things  ?  It  doesn't 
matter  in  the  least.  We  can  buy  all  you  need  in 
Mercer." 

"But,  Mr.  King,  I'm  going  back  in  a  minute.  I 
only  came  to  tell  you —  Oh,  Aunt  Clara  frightened 
me  so  !" 

He  was  in  a  hurry,  and  alert  for  the  sound  of  pur 
suing  wheels,  but  he  stopped  his  horse,  and  put  his 
arm  round  her  and  kissed  her,  his  face  darkening. 

"  Dearest,  never  think  of  her  again.  You  are  mine 
now.  We  are  going  to  be  married,  my  sweet.  Do 
you  hear  ?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Dorothea,  pushing  away  from  him  and 
sitting  up  very  straight,  "  you  don't  mean  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  now.  I  wish  it  had  been  three  weeks  ago  ; 
it's  just  so  much  time  wasted  !" 

She  began  to  say  she  couldn't,  she  mustn't,  Aunt 
Clara  would  be,  oh,  so  dreadfully  angry  ! 

But  Oscar  King  interrupted  cheerfully :  "  Now, 
Dorothea,  listen  •  when  I  take  you  to  Dr.  Lavendar 
you  won't  back  down  if  he  asks  you  whether  you 
want  to  get  married?" 

"  Oh,  if  Dr.  Lavendar  disapproves,  I  umstgo  home," 
cried  poor  Dorothea,  in  anguish. 

"He'll  disapprove  if  you  break  my  heart,  Dolly," 
he  told  her,  gravely  ;  then  he  went  over  all  his  plans. 
He  did  not  entreat  or  plead  ;  he  announced.  They 
were  in  Old  Chester  by  this  time,  and  it  must  be  ad 
mitted  that  Mr.  King  had  some  anxieties  as  to  the 
outcome  of  this  high-handed  wooing,  for  Dorothea, 

33 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

when  he  stopped  for  breath,  still  protested,  faintly. 
If  Dr.  Lavendar  thought  that  she  was  not  as  deter 
mined  as  her  lover,  he  would  certainly  induce  her  to 
go  back  and  ask  Miss  Ferris's  consent ;  which  would 
mean — Oscar  King  was  ready  to  believe  it  would 
mean  a  dungeon  and  bread  and  water  !  He  checked 
his  horse  a  little,  slapping  the  wet  rein  on  the  bay's 
steaming  back,  and  meditated. 

"Dolly,  dear,  Dr.  Lavendar  wanted  to  marry  us, 
instead  of  letting  the  justice  of  the  peace  do  it  in 
Upper  Chester.  He  made  me  promise  to  bring  you 
to  him.  He  said  it  was  proper.  Of  course  you  don't 
want  to  do  anything  that  isn't  proper  ?" 

"  Oh  no,"  Dorothea  answered,  with  agitation. 

"  So  I  promised  ;  and  you  see  I  can't  break  my 
word." 

Dorothea  looked  frightened. 

"  So  you  must  tell  him  you  want  to  marry  me. 
You  do,  don't  you,  Dolly  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  Mr.  King,"  she  answered,  tremulously, 
"  but  not  just — " 

"Never  mind  about  that.  Just  tell  him  you  do 
want  to,  Dolly.  Never  mind  about  the  time.  Prom 
ise  me  you  will  tell  him  you  want  to  be  married  ? 
After  to-day  you  shall  never  make  a  promise  again 
as  long  as  you  live.  If  Dr.  Lavendar  asks  you  if  you 
are  doing  this  of  your  own  free  will,  you  say  *  yes.' 
Because  you  are,  you  know.  I  will  stop  the  buggy 
right  here,  if  you  want  to  get  out." 

He  drew  up  in  a  hollow  of  the  road,  where  the 
water  stood  in  a  puddle  from  one  side  to  the  other. 
"  You  can  get  out,  dear."  Dorothea  looked  over  the 
dripping  wheel  tired  in  mud.  "  Promise  just  to 
say  '  yes  '  if  he  asks  you." 

34 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

"  Oh  !"  said  Dorothea.  They  were  almost  at  the 
rectory  gate.  Oscar  King  had  a  worried  line  be 
tween  his  eyes. 

"  Dolly,  I'll  tell  you  what :  when  Dr.  Lavendar 
asks  you  anything  I'll  repeat  it,  and  you  answer  me  ; 
will  you  ?  Come,  now,  I'm  not  asking  very  much  ! 
Promise." 

"  I  promise,"  faltered  Dorothea. 

When  Oscar  King,  leading  Dorothea,  pushed  open 
the  door  and  came  in,  it  was  like  a  gust  of  west  wind 
and  a  gleam  of  pale  sunshine.  Dr.  Lavendar  looked 
up  from  his  lathe,  a  little  irritated  at  being  inter 
rupted  ;  but  seeing  who  it  was,  he  smiled  and  frowned 
together.  He  had  on  his  queer  old  dressing-gown, 
and  his  dog  was  tucked  into  his  chair  behind  him. 

"What  !"  he  said.  "You've  got  her,  have  you?" 
And  then  he  looked  very  grave.  "  Dorothea,  my  child, 
I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  this  is  a  serious  thing  you 
are  thinking  of  doing." 

"  You  know  it's  serious,  Dolly,  don't  you  ?"  Mr. 
King  said,  gently. 

"Oh  yes,  Mr.  King,"  Dorothea  answered,  almost 
with  passion. 

"  My  dear,"  proceeded  Dr.  Lavendar,  "  I  don't  ap 
prove  of  runaway  marriages,  as  a  rule.  I  made 
Oscar  promise  to  bring  you  here,  because  I  couldn't 
have  one  of  my  children  married  by  anybody  else. 
You  are  of  age,  and  you  have  a  right  to  be  married, 
and  I  believe  Oscar  to  be  a  good  man,  or  else  I 
wouldn't  let  you  do  it,  if  I  had  to  lock  you  up  in  that 
closet ;  but  I  must  be  sure  first,  my  dear,  that  you 
realize  what  you  are  doing,  and  that  you  love  Oscar 
with  all  your  heart,  and  that  is  why  you  want  to 

35 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

marry  him.     Not  merely  to  get  away  from  conditions 
which  are,  I  know,  hard  and  unnatural." 

"  Do  you  love  me,  Dolly  ?" 

The  room  was  very  silent  for  a  moment ;  a  coal 
fell  out  of  the  grate  upon  the  hearth  ;  Dorothea  drew 
a  long  breath  and  looked  up  at  him,  a  sudden  reality 
dawning  in  her  face. 

"  Why — I  do  !"  she  said,  vague  astonishment  thrill 
ing  in  her  voice. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  marry  me  on  your  aunt 
Clara's  account,  are  you,  Dolly  ?"  he  asked  her,  per 
suasively. 

"Why,  no,  Mr.  King,"  she  said,  in  a  bewildered 
way. 

"  You  are  not  being  overpersuaded  ?"  Dr.  Laven- 
dar  insisted,  anxiously. 

She  looked  at  her  lover,  who,  smiling,  shook  his 
head.  "  No,"  she  repeated,  faintly. 

"  Now,  sir,"  Oscar  broke  in,  cheerfully,  "  I  don't 
want  to  hurry  you,  but  we  haven't  any  time  to 
waste — " 

"  Well,"  the  old  man  said — "  well,  I  suppose  there 
is  nothing  more  for  me  to  say,  but — " 

"But  'Amen  !'"  Oscar  assured  him,  with  a  glance 
out  into  the  rainy  mist.  Suppose  Miss  Ferris  should 
appear  !  "  Never  mind  a  surplice.  Come,  Dolly,  give 
me  your  hand,  my  dear — 

"  Of  course  I  shall  mind  a  surplice,  sir  !"  said  Dr. 
Lavendar.  "  Any  child  of  mine  shall  be  married  de 
cently  and  in  order.  Here,  show  me  your  license." 

Then  he  went  away,  and  came  back  in  his  surplice, 
with  his  prayer-book,  and  in  ten  minutes  the  Amen 
was  said. 

36 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 


VIII 

"Why,"  said  Miss  Clara  Ferris  afterwards — "  why 
I  did  not  swoon  when  I  discovered  Dorothea's  deceit, 
and  That  Person's  baseness,  and  Dr.  Lavendar's  im 
proper  conduct,  I  shall  never  know  !  Providence,  I 
suppose,  sustained  me." 

Miss  Ferris  had  breakfasted  in  bed  that  morning, 
for  the  prospect  of  meeting  Dorothea  at  the  break 
fast-table  was  not  attractive  ;  so  it  happened  that  the 
girl's  absence  was  not  discovered  until  Oscar  King's 
letter  announced  it,  and  her  marriage  also.  There 
was,  of  course,  an  instant  and  agitated  departure  for 
Old  Chester. 

"  I  will  save  her,"  Miss  Clara  told  Miss  Mary, 
weeping ;  "  she  shall  desert  him — if  it  were  on  the 
steps  of  the  altar  !" 

"  But  it's  all  done,"  protested  the  invalid,  also 
weeping  ;  "  they've  left  the  altar." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  James  Lavendar  what  I  think  of 
him  ;  I'll  tell  him  he  has  taken  a  great  liberty  in  in 
terfering  in  my  family  affairs  !"  Miss  Ferris  de 
clared,  shrilly,  and  went  whirling  into  Old  Chester 
as  fast  as  the  two  fat  horses  which  never  went  out 
in  the  rain  could  take  her. 

Miss  Mary,  lying  in  her  bed,  heard  the  whir  of 
wheels  beneath  her  window ;  for  a  moment  she 
thought,  passionately,  how  it  would  seem  to  be 
driving  into  this  blowing  fog  of  rain,  feeling  the  wet 
wind  against  her  face,  and  smelling  the  dead,  dank 
leaves  underfoot.  Then  her  mind  went  back  to  this 
amazing  news  and  her  sister's  anger  :  Clara  would 
kill  the  child  !  Oh,  if  she  could  only  walk  !  If  she 

37 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

could  only  go  and  save  her !  Where  was  she  ? 
Clara  would  drag  her  home,  and  another  Ferris 
heart  would  be  broken  !  Miss  Mary  moaned  aloud 
in  her  grief  and  helplessness. 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  my  legs  !"  she  said  to  herself ;  and 
then  suddenly  she  stopped  crying,  only  whimpering 
a  little  below  her  breath,  poor  old  soul  !  and  slid 
along  towards  the  edge  of  her  bed — slid  along  until 
her  feet  touched  the  floor,  and  she  stood,  shaking, 
quavering,  holding  on  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
looking  about  her. 

"  But  I  haven't  any  clothes,"  she  said,  plaintively  ; 
"  Clara  has  taken  my  clothes." 

Somehow,  on  her  tottering,  long-unused  feet,  she 
crept  across  the  room  to  her  sister's  wardrobe.  She 
moaned  under  her  breath  ;  her  heart  beat  horribly. 
Yet  somehow  she  began  to  put  on  some  of  Miss 
Clara's  clothing.  She  had  almost  forgotten  how  to 
do  it  ;  the  feeling  of  stockings  and  shoes  upon  her 
feet  was  as  strange  as  would  be  any  harsh  contact 
with  one's  face  ;  but  she  put  them  on,  flushing  and 
breathing  hard,  and  half  sobbing.  Then  she  looked 
about  for  a  cloak,  and  went  out  into  the  hall,  creep 
ing  and  thrilling  with  this  strange  sensation  of  being 
fastened  into  something.  Miss  Mary  had  not  seen 
that  upper  hall  since  the  day  she  had  come  up  the 
stairs  dazed  and  bewildered  and  deserted  ;  she  looked 
about  her  with  a  sudden  horror  of  all  the  dead  and 
stifled  years  since  that  vital  day.  How  she  got  down 
the  stairs  no  one  ever  knew  ;  she  clung  to  the  hand 
rail,  sliding,  slipping,  half  falling,  and  reached  the 
lower  hall.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  shoes  she  had 
put  on  were  like  leaden  cases  ;  she  felt  the  shoe 
strings  cutting  into  her  instep  ;  she  felt  the  weight 

38 


THE    PROMISES    OF    DOROTHEA 

of  her  skirts  about  her  ankles.  She  sat  down  on  the 
bottom  step,  panting  with  exhaustion  and  overcome 
with  memory,  but  determined  to  save  Dorothea. 
And  then  she  fainted. 

Miss  Ferris  found  her  there  when  she  came  back 
from  the  journey,  which  had  revealed  Oscar  King's 
wickedness  and  Dorothea's  undutifulness,  and  Dr. 
Lavendar's  complicity — found  her,  and  realized  that 
the  illusion  and  the  interest  of  her  life  had  been  de 
stroyed  :  Miss  Mary  was  no  longer  crushed  I 

Miss  Clara  fell  ill,  poor  lady,  through  excitement 
and  chagrin  ;  and  Miss  Mary,  acquiring  her  legs  and 
some  clothing,  nursed  her  tenderly.  But  life  was 
never  the  same  for  the  two  sisters  afterwards.  To 
poor  old  Mary  there  came  a  dreadful  suspicion  of 
herself  ;  perhaps,  after  all,  her  heart  had  not  been 
broken?  perhaps  her  fine  delicacy  had  not  existed? 
perhaps — perhaps  !  There  was  no  end  to  her  moral 
and  physical  distrust  of  herself —a  distrust  that  made 
her  shamefaced  and  silent,  afraid  to  say  she  had  a 
headache  or  a  twinge  of  rheumatism,  lest  Clara 
should  turn  and  look  at  her — and  doubt  ! 

Miss  Clara,  for  her  part,  had  no  pangs  of  con 
science,  but  she  suffered  agonies  of  mortification. 
If  she  had  a  consolation,  it  was  that  Oscar  King's 
conduct  in  marrying  Dorothea  justified  her  opinion 
of  persons  who  had  lived  abroad  very  many  years. 

As  for  Oscar,  he  told  his  wife  once  that  it  was  hard 
on  poor  old  Clara  to  have  Miss  Mary  get  well ;  and 
Dorothea  opened  her  mild  eyes,  and  said  : 

"  Why,  Oscar,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

Which  goes  to  show  that  she  still  retained  the  men 
tal  characteristics  which  endeared  her  to  her  lover. 

39 


GOOD   FOR   THE    SOUL 


GOOD   FOR  THE   SOUL 


IT  was  about  twelve  or  thirteen  years  before  Dr. 
Lavendar  startled  Old  Chester  by  helping  Oscar 
King  elope  with  that  little  foolish  Dorothea  Ferris 
that,  one  night,  in  the  rectory  study,  with  Mary  and 
his  brother,  Joey  Lavendar,  as  witnesses,  he  married 
Peter  Day.  Peter,  with  a  pretty  girl  on  his  arm, 
drifted  in  out  of  the  windy  and  rainy  darkness,  with 
a  license  from  the  Mayor's  office  in  Upper  Chester, 
and  a  demand  that  Dr.  Lavendar  perform  the  mar 
riage  service.  Both  the  man  and  the  woman  were 
strangers  to  him,  and  the  old  minister  looked  at  them 
sharply  for  a  minute  or  two  —  he  had  misgivings, 
somehow.  But  the  girl  was  old  enough,  and  looked 
perfectly  satisfied  and  intelligent,  and  the  man's  face 
was  simple  and  honest — besides,  the  license  was  all 
right.  So  he  asked  one  or  two  grave  and  kindly 
questions  :  "  You've  thought  this  well  over  ?  You 
know  what  a  solemn  thing  marriage  is,  my  friends  ? 
You  are  well  assured  that  you  are  acting  soberly, 
discreetly,  and  in  the  fear  of  God  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Peter  Day  ;  and  the  girl,  a  pretty, 
sick  -  looking  creature,  opened  her  big  brown  eyes 
with  a  glimmer  of  interest  in  them,  and  said,  also : 

43 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"Yes,  sir."  So  Dr.  Lavendar  did  his  duty,  and 
found  a  surprisingly  large  fee  in  his  hand,  and  went 
back  to  smoke  his  pipe  and  write  at  least  a  page  on 
his  great  work,  The  History  of  Predates  Stones. 

That  was  the  last  he  saw  of  the  unknown  bride 
and  groom  for  many  a  long  year.  Once  he  heard  of 
a  new  threshing-machine  that  was  being  tried  at  the 
Day  farm,  in  the  next  county,  and  was  interesting 
two  or  three  farmers  in  his  own  parish  ;  but  he  did 
not  connect  the  rich  and  successful  farmer  of  Graf- 
ton,  a  village  near  Upper  Chester,  with  the  man  he 
had  married  that  stormy  July  night.  So,  though 
his  neighbors  had  found  them  interesting  enough, 
Peter  Day's  affairs  had  never  come  to  Dr.  Lav- 
endar's  ears. 

Peter  had  been  commiserated  for  forty  years  : 
His  farm  was  prosperous  ;  it  kept  pace  with  all  the 
new  machinery,  fertilizers  were  not  despised,  and 
there  was  no  waste  ;  the  Day  heifers  had  a  name  all 
through  the  State  ;  and  a  thousand  acres  of  haying- 
land  meant  a  capital  as  reliable  as  government  bonds. 
"  I  guess  he's  worth  seventy-five  thousand  dollars  if 
he's  worth  a  cent,"  his  neighbors  said  ;  "  but  the  old 
lady,  she  won't  let  on  but  what  they're  as  poor  as 
poverty."  Certainly  there  was  no  doubt  that  Peter 
Day  was  prosperous ;  but,  nevertheless,  he  was  com 
miserated — he  had  a  mother. 

"  The  farm  is  the  best  farm  in  Westmoreland 
County,"  his  neighbors  said,  "but  whether  Peter 
can  keep  it  up  when'  the  old  lady  goes,  that's  an 
other  question." 

"  He  may  not  keep  the  farm  up,  but  he  can  let 
himself  down,"  Henry  Davis,  who  was  the  black- 

44 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

smith,  declared  ;  "  and  I'll  be  glad  of  it !  Before 
Peter  Day  goes  to  heaven  —  I  guess  there's  no 
doubt  of  Peter's  going  there  in  due  time  ? — he  ought 
to  know  something  about  the  earth.  He's  acquaint 
ed  with  the  Other  Place,  dear  knows,  with  the  old 
woman  ! — not  that  I'd  say  anything  against  her  now 
she's  on  her  death-bed."  Henry  put  a  hand  on  the 
bellows,  and  a  roar  of  blue  flame  burst  through  the 
heap  of  black  fuel  on  the  forge.  "  Don't  you  let  on 
to  anybody,  but  I  doubt  if  Peter  '11  ever  be  more  'an 
three  years  old.  His  mother's  bossed  him  every 
breath  he  breathed  since  he  was  born,  and  he'll  be 
just  real  miserable  learning  to  walk  alone  at  forty." 

It  must  be  admitted  that  here  was  cause  for  com 
miseration  :  All  his  forty  years  Mrs.  Day  had  dom 
inated  her  son's  life  ;  she  had  managed  his  farm,  and 
he  had  fetched  and  carried  and  improved  according 
to  her  very  excellent  judgment.  She  had  formed 
his  opinions  —  or,  rather,  she  had  given  him  her 
opinions ;  she  had  directed  his  actions,  she  had 
bought  his  clothes,  she  had  doled  out  every  dollar 
he  spent,  and  taken  scrupulous  account  of  the  spend 
ing  ;  she  had  crushed,  long  ago,  any  vague  thought 
of  marriage  he  may  have  had  ;  and  she  had  assured 
him  over  and  over  that  he  was  a  fool.  A  hard, 
shrewish,  hideously  plain,  marvellously  capable  old 
woman,  with  a  temper  which  in  her  later  years  drew 
very  near  the  line  of  insanity.  Then  she  died. 

The  August  afternoon  that  the  little  train  of  silent 
people  carried  her  out  of  her  own  door  up  to  the 
family  burying  -  ground  in  the  pasture  (the  Days 
were  of  New  England  stock,  and  had  the  feeling  of 
race  permanence  in  their  blood,  which  shows  itself 
in  this  idea  of  a  burying-ground  on  their  own  land) 

45 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

— that  August  afternoon  was  sunny  and  still,  except 
for  the  sudden  song  of  a  locust  in  the  stubble,  stab 
bing  the  silence  and  melting  into  it  again.  Some 
sumacs  were  reddening  on  the  opposite  hill -side; 
and  the  blossoming  buckwheat  in  the  next  field  was 
full  of  the  murmur  of  bees  ;  its  hot  fragrance  lifted 
and  drifted  on  any  wandering  breath  of  wind.  Peter 
Day  walked  behind  the  coffin  in  his  new  black 
clothes,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  ;  then  came  the 
friends  and  neighbors,  two  by  two.  A  path  had 
been  mowed  through  the  thin  second  crop  of  grass  ; 
but  the  women's  skirts  brushed  the  early  golden-rod 
and  the  tangling  briers  in  the  angles  of  the  snake- 
fence.  Up  in  the  pasture,  where  the  burial-lot,  en 
closed  by  a  prim  white  paling,  lay  under  a  great  oak, 
a  bird,  balancing  on  a  leaning  slate  headstone,  burst 
into  a  gurgling  laugh  of  song.  The  oak  dropped 
moving  shadows  back  and  forth  on  the  group  of  men 
and  women  who  stood  watching  silently  that  solemn 
merging  of  living  into  Life — of  consciousness  and 
knowledge  and  bitterness  and  spite,  of  human  nat 
ure,  into  Nature.  This  ending  of  the  mean  and 
pitiful  tumult  which  is  so  often  all  that  individuality 
seems  to  be,  this  sinking  of  the  unit  into  the  uni 
verse,  is  like  the  subsidence  of  a  little  whirling  gust 
of  wind  which  for  an  instant  has  caught  up  straws 
and  dust  and  then  drops  into  dead  calm.  There  is  a 
sense  of  peace  about  it  that  is  not  exactly  human  ;  it 
is  organic,  perhaps  ;  it  only  comes  where  there  is  no 
grief.  They  felt  it,  these  people  who  stood  watching, 
silently,  unbelieving  in  their  hearts  that  they  too 
would  some  time  go  back  into  sun  and  shade  and 
rolling  world.  There  was  no  grief,  only  curiosity 
and  interest  and  the  sense  of  peace.  When  it  was 

46 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

over,  they  walked  slowly  back  again,  pausing  for 
some  low-voiced  talk  at  the  Day  doorway,  and  then 
leaving  Peter,  and  drawing  a  longer  breath  perhaps, 
and  raising  their  voices  to  chatter  together  of  the 
dead  woman's  temper  and  meanness  and  the  money 
she  had  left. 

The  little  whirl  of  shrewish  wind  had  fallen  into 
calm  ;  it  was  "  all  over,"  as  the  saying  is — and  so 
much  greater  is  Life  than  living  that  it  was  as 
though  it  never  had  been.  Except  to  Peter  Day. 
The  house  had  the  stillness  of  that  grave  he  had  left 
up  in  the  pasture.  He  heard  some  one  moving 
about  out  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  clock  ticking  in 
the  hall.  But  there  was  no  strident  old  voice  to  bid 
him  do  this  or  that ;  no  orders  to  obey,  no  fierce  and 
insane  fault  -  finding.  The  silence  was  deafening. 
He  sat  down  in  the  parlor — the  occasion  seemed  to 
demand  the  dignity  of  the  parlor.  The  chairs  had 
been  put  back  in  their  places,  but  the  open  space  in 
front  of  the  fireplace  struck  him  like  a  blow  ;  and 
the  lingering  scent  of  the  flowers  made  him  feel 
sick. 

He  was  a  short,  sturdy-looking  man,  with  a  soft 
black  beard,  and  kind,  quiet,  near-sighted  eyes,  which 
his  round  spectacles  magnified  into  lambent  moons. 
There  was  no  weakness  in  his  face  ;  but  there  was 
patience  in  every  line  ;  just  now  there  was  bewilder 
ment. 

"  Dead  ?"  He  was  trying,  dumbly,  to  adjust  him 
self  to  the  fact  ;  to  understand  it,  or  at  least  to  be 
lieve  it.  He  felt  something  swell  in  his  throat,  and 
very  likely  he  thought  it  was  grief.  Habit  does 
much  for  us  in  this  way  ;  a  carping,  uncomfortable 
companionship  of  forty  years  is  yet  a  companionship. 

47 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Life  runs  in  rough  grooves,  but  they  are  grooves ; 
and  when  it  leaves  them  there  is  a  wrench  and  jolt, 
and  perhaps  even  a  crash — and  very  often  it  is  all 
mistaken  for  grief.  Peter,  in  his  simple  way,  called 
it  grief.  As  he  sat  there  in  his  black  clothes,  looking 
at  that  open  space  where  the  coffin  had  stood,  he  was 
vaguely  conscious  that  he  wished  he  had  his  dog  Jim 
beside  him  ;  but  after  forty  years  of  being  told  that 
he  "  could  not  bring  dogs  and  cattle  into  the  house," 
and  that  "  he  was  a  fool  to  want  to,"  he  would  have 
found  the  effort  of  freedom  absolute  pain.  So  he  sat 
still  until  it  grew  dusk,  trying  to  believe  that  she  was 
dead,  thinking  about  heaven — for  he  was  a  religious 
man — and  saying  to  himself  that  she  was  "  far  better 
off."  But  never  saying  that  he  was"  far  better  off," 
too. 

Of  course,  as  the  weeks  passed,  he  adjusted  himself 
to  the  difference  in  his  condition  ;  he  grew  accus 
tomed  to  certain  reliefs.  Yet  he  did  not  realize  that 
he  was  free.  He  was  like  a  horse  who  slips  his  halter 
in  a  tread-mill,  but  goes  on  and  on  and  on.  He  was 
not  harassed  by  the  goad  of  the  strident  voice,  but 
he  did  the  same  work,  in  the  same  way,  in  the  same 
harsh  and  unlovely  surroundings  —  and  he  did  not 
bring  Jim  into  the  house  for  company  !  He  spent 
his  money  on  meagre  essentials  of  food  and  fuel,  and 
on  the  necessary  improvements  of  the  farm  ;  but  he 
missed  his  mother's  judgment  and  shrewd  foresight 
in  such  matters.  He  went  to  church,  and  slept 
heavily  during  the  service  ;  but  he  never  went  to 
the  church  sociables.  His  mother  had  despised 
them,  and  he  was  too  old  to  acquire  social  habits. 
He  made  no  effort  to  be  intimate  with  his  neighbors. 
Mrs.  Day  had  quarrelled  with  them  all,  and  would 

48 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

not  have  their  names  spoken  in  her  presence  if  she 
could  help  it ;  so,  if  Peter  had  a  capacity  for  friend 
ship,  these  speechless  years  had  made  it  dumb. 
Hence  he  was  singularly  isolated,  untouched  by  the 
interest  or  the  gossip  or  the  knowledge  of  the  life 
about  him.  He  spent  his  days  as  he  had  always 
spent  them,  following  the  lines  his  mother  had  laid 
down  for  him.  He  went  through  the  usual  round  of 
daily  work.  In  the  evenings  he  read  his  agricultural 
paper  or  an  old  book  of  sermons.  There  was  no  one 
to  tell  him  to  go  to  bed  ;  and  once  he  fell  asleep,  his 
arms  stretched  on  the  table  in  front  of  him,  and 
wakened  in  the  cold  early  light,  stiff  and  bewildered, 
and  heavy  with  fatigue.  But  there  was  one  point  on 
which  Peter  Day  was  perfectly  clear  :  he  might, 
through  stupidity  or  dulness,  go  on  in  the  tread 
mill  now  that  the  halter  was  slipped,  but — he  was 
glad  to  miss  the  goad  ! 

The  final  awakening  to  a  knowledge  that  he  was 
free  came  some  ten  months  later.  It  was  in  June  ; 
a  hot,  sparkling  day,  when  every  hand  on  the  farm 
had  twice  as  much  as  he  could  do.  Something  had 
gone  wrong  about  the  mower  ;  and  Peter,  with  Jim 
at  his  heels,  went  into  the  village  to  get  the  black 
smith  to  weld  a  broken  rod  together.  It  was  a  loss 
of  time,  this  hanging  about  the  blacksmith's  shop 
waiting  for  the  work  to  be  done,  and  the  old  habit  of 
uneasiness,  because  of  his  mother's  rage  at  any  de 
lay,  made  him  tramp  about,  frowning,  and  looking 
up  the  road  as  though  expecting  some  messenger 
sent  to  bid  him  hasten. 

The  shop  was  dark,  except  for  the  red  flicker  when 
the  smith  thrust  his  pincers  into  the  heap  of  ashes 
with  one  hand  and  started  the  bellows  with  the 

49 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

other.  Then  a  shower  of  sparks  flew  up  the  great 
black  cone  of  the  chimney,  and  Peter  could  see  his 
piece  of  broken  iron  whiten  in  the  flames.  He 
looked  at  his  watch  and  walked  to  the  door  and 
back. 

"Ain't  you  'most  done?" 

"  I  ain't.  And  I  won't  be  for  a  half-hour,"  Henry 
Davis  said.  "  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Peter, 
anyway  ?  What's  your  hurry  ?  It  wouldn't  kill  any 
body  if  you  didn't  get  back  till  to-morrow.  Your 
other  machine's  going.  There  ain't  no  dyin'  need  of 
this  here  one,  anyhow." 

"Well,  I  ain't  one  to  waste  time,"  Peter  said.  Jim 
yawned,  and  stretched  himself  on  the  bare  black 
earth  of  the  floor.  He,  at  least,  was  in  no  hurry. 

"  Well,  whose  time  are  you  wastin'  ?"  the  smith 
insisted,  good-naturedly.  "  It's  your  own,  ain't  it  ? 
I  guess  you  got  a  right  to  loaf.  There's  no  one  to 
say  you  nay,"  he  ended. 

"  That's  so,"  said  Peter.  But  he  still  tramped  back 
and  forth,  until  the  smith,  turning  the  bar  about  on 
his  anvil,  cried  ; 

"  For  the  Lord's  sake,  Peter  Day,  get  out  !  Go  up 
the  street  and  get  a  shave.  Get  out  o'  here,  anyway." 

Peter  laughed,  and  went,  saying  that  he  would  be 
back  in  ten  minutes.  "And  mind  you  have  that  rod 
done  !" 

He  loitered  along,  looking  at  his  watch  more  than 
once,  and  coming  to  a  standstill  before  the  window 
of  a  grocery-store.  He  did  not  go  in.  All  these 
years  the  curb  of  his  mother's  will  had  held  him  away 
from  the  shiftless  and  friendly  gatherings  about  the 
stove  or  around  the  back  counter,  and  it  held  him 
yet.  So  he  only  looked  into  the  dusty  window.  There 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

were  wooden  rakes  stacked  up  at  one  side,  and  boxes 
of  cotton  lace,  and  two  jars  of  red  and  white  sticks  of 
candy,  and  some  fly-specked  cups  and  saucers  in  thick 
earthen-ware  ;  there  were  two  advertisements  of 
poultry  food  pasted  against  the  glass,  and  a  print  of 
a  new  mower.  He  took  these  in  absently,  wondering 
if  the  rod  was  nearly  done.  And  then  his  eye  caught 
a  colored  lithograph  propped  up  against  a  pile  of 
dusty  tin-ware  :  a  row  of  girls,  smiling,  coquettish, 
marching,  each  with  slippered  foot  well  advanced, 
holding  out  a  gay  skirt  with  the  thumb  and  fore 
finger  of  one  hand,  and  flirting  with  the  other  a  huge 
feather  fan  across  arch  and  laughing  eyes.  The  flut 
ter  of  the  pink  and  blue  and  white  skirts,  the  slender 
ankles,  the  invitation  and  challenge  and  imper 
tinence  of  the  upward  kick,  seemed  to  Peter  Day 
perfectly  beautiful.  He  gazed  at  the  picture,  ab 
sorbed  and  entranced.  The  owner  of  the  shop,  stand 
ing  in  the  doorway,  watched  him,  grinning. 

"  You  better  go  see  'em,  Mr.  Day.  They're  to  be 
here  to-night.  The  parson's  mad,  I  tell  you." 

Peter  came  to  himself  with  a  start,  and  read  the 
announcement  of  the  production  in  the  town-hall,  on 
such  a  date  and  at  such  an  hour,  of  "  Sweet  Rosy." 
The  notice  below  the  picture  set  forth  : 

The  Four  Montague  Sisters  will  Perform  their  Charming, 
Refined,  and  Side-splitting  Farce,  with  all  Accessories  of 
Magnificent  Scenery,  Exquisite  Music,  and  Elaborate  Cos 
tumes.  The  Ballet  is  pronounced  to  be  the  most  Beautiful, 
in  Loveliness  of  Form  and  Perfection  of  Grace,  ever  seen  in 
America. 

YOUTH.    GRACE.     BEAUTY. 
ADMISSION,  35  CENTS. 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  We've  never  had  one  of  these  here  shows  up  here," 
said  the  storekeeper  ;  "  but  of  course  I've  seen  'em. 
I  always  go  when  I'm  in  the  city,  because  my  ex 
ample  can't  injure  nobody  there.  Here  it's  different. 
Why  don't  you  go  and  see  'em,  Mr.  Day  ?" 

Why  didn't  he  ?  Peter  Day  went  back  to  the  black 
smith's  shop  for  his  rod,  and  walked  home  "  study 
ing."  Why  shouldn't  he  go  to  see  the  show  ?  He  did 
not  ask  himself  whether  there  was  anything  wrong 
in  such  shows — he  never  had  asked  such  questions. 
There  was  nothing  abstract  about  Peter.  He  had 
simply  ducked  and  winced  under  his  mother's  tongue, 
and  accepted  her  decisions  of  what  was  right  or 
wrong,  avoiding,  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  the  things  that 
roused  the  furious  temper  which  lay  always  ready  to 
flash  and  roar  and  shake  the  house  down  at  the  most 
trivial  excuse.  In  ten  months  he  had  gotten  more  or 
less  used  to  peace,  even  if  he  had  not  taken  advantage 
of  it.  But  why  shouldn't  he  take  advantage  of  it  ? 

He  looked  through  his  round  spectacles  with  absent 
intentness  at  Jim,  jogging  along  in  the  dust  in  front 
of  him.  "  I'm  going  to  see  them,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"  why  not  ?" 


II 

The  town-hall  in  Grafton  stood  in  the  square  ;  win 
ter  rains  had  washed  and  washed  against  its  narrow, 
faded  old  bricks  until  the  plaster  between  them  had 
crumbled  and  their  angles  and  edges  had  worn  down. 
The  white  paint  on  the  facings  and  on  the  great 
beam  that  made  the  base  of  the  pediment,  had  flaked 
and  blistered  ;  a  crack  ran  from  a  second-story  win- 

52 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

dow  down  towards  the  front  door,  which  sagged  a 
little  in  its  battered  white  frame.  Inside,  the  wooden 
steps  were  so  worn  that  the  knots  stood  out  on  them  : 
— innumerable  town  meetings,  fairs,  lectures,  and  all 
such  entertainments  as  this  of  the  Montague  Sisters, 
made  much  travel  over  the  wide,  shallow  staircase. 
The  walls  were  bare,  the  plaster  stained  and  cracked, 
even  broken  in  two  or  three  places,  and  studded  with 
nails  for  all  the  different  decorations  of  pine  or  flags 
or  crape  or  flowers  which  had  gone  up  and  come 
down  in  more  than  fifty  years.  There  were  lanterns 
in  brackets  along  the  walls,  and  eight  lamps  in  a 
dusty  chandelier  cast  flickering  shadows  down  on  the 
bare  floor  and  the  rows  of  wooden  settees,  which, 
when  Mr.  Day  arrived,  were  quite  empty — such  was 
his  anxiety  to  get  a  good  seat.  The  audience  came 
stamping  and  scuffling  in,  with  a  good  deal  of  laugh 
ter,  and  much  loud,  good-natured  raillery,  and  some 
cat-cries.  Very  likely  the  parson  had  reason  for 
"  being  mad."  "  Sweet  Rosy  ;  or,  The  Other  Man  " 
was  the  play,  and  there  was  a  suggestiveness  in  the 
names  of  the  acts  which  would  have  forewarned  any 
body  but  Peter.  He  had  no  experience  in  indecencies. 

He  was  tingling  with  excitement ;  the  sudden  and 
unusual  concentration  of  thought  and  feeling  was 
not  without  pain — it  was,  mentally,  like  the  awaking 
of  a  hand  or  foot  which  has  been  asleep. 

The  curtain  rolled  up,  caught — and  displayed  a 
pair  of  slender  ankles,  and  opposite  them  two  Welling 
ton  boots,  fiercely  spurred — rolled  on,  and  showed  a 
man  decorated  with  stars  and  sashes  and  sword, 
which  informed  the  audience  that  he  was  a  soldier ; 
and  a  girl,  in  fluffy  pink  skirts,  high-heeled  pink  slip 
pers,  low  pink  satin  skin-tight  bodice,  pink  lips,  pink 

53 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

cheeks,  pink  hat  and  feathers.  Her  neck  and  bosom 
were  as  white  as  swan's-down,  and  glittered  with 
"  diamonds,"  that  did  not  seem  any  more  sparkling 
than  her  arch  brown  eyes,  which  laughed  over  her 
pink  fan — laughed  and  winked,  and  looked  right  down 
at  Peter  Day  in  the  front  seat.  Peter's  mouth  fell 
open  ;  he  looked  at  his  programme,  the  flimsy  sheet 
rustling  in  his  big  hands  until  his  neighbors  frowned 
at  him  with  impatience. 

"  Bessie  Montague."  That  was  her  name — Bessie  ! 
The  soldier,  it  appeared,  was  Bessie's  brother,  who 
was  instructing  her  about  the  "  Other  Man,"  Mr. 
Wilson,  who  was  shortly  to  appear — hampered,  in 
deed,  by  a  Mrs.  Wilson  ;  but  if  Bessie  and  her  sisters, 
Minnie,  Nellie,  Mamie,  would  play  their  cards  prop 
erly,  the  mere  incident  of  the  wife  would  make  no 
difference.  They  would  go  to  a  picnic  with  the  Other 
Man,  and  then,  and  then,  and  THEN  ! — came  a  rollick 
ing  chorus,  with  Minnie  and  Mamie  and  Nellie  danc 
ing  round  and  round,  Bessie  the  gayest  of  them  all, 
and  the  Other  Man  and  the  Incident  coming  on  to  be 
hoodwinked,  in  sober  and  decent  clothes  and  sancti 
monious  air.  The  audience  roared  at  each  innuendo  ; 
and  Peter,  smiling  and  palpitating  like  a  girl,  took  it 
all  to  mean  that  the  four  girls  wanted  the  fun  of  the 
picnic,  and  were  going  to  get  the  old  dodger  with  the 
hay  seed  in  his  hair  to  give  it  to  them.  At  least,  when 
he  thought  about  the  play  at  all,  that  was  his  con 
struction  of  it ;  but  he  hardly  thought  of  it — the 
dancing  enthralled  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Mamie  and  Minnie  said  things  that  weren't  just  mod 
est  sometimes,  but  a  girl  doesn't  understand  half  the 
time  what  words  mean  ;  very  likely  they  didn't  know 
why  the  masculine  part  of  the  audience  roared  so, 

54 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

Nellie  had  almost  nothing  to  say,  and  Bessie  was  the 
premiere  danseuse,  and  only  joined  in  the  choruses. 
To  Peter,  from  the  first  moment,  she  was  the  most 
fascinating  figure  on  the  stage.  Her  dancing  and 
coquetting  and  pirouetting,  her  glances  and  gurgling 
laughter  and  gestures,  went  to  his  head.  He  saw 
nothing  else  ;  the  tawdry  scenery,  the  soiled  cotton 
velvet  and  flimsy  crumpled  satin,  the  reek  of  vulgarity, 
never  touched  his  innocent  mind.  He  looked  at  her 
open-mouthed,  breathless.  The  play  was  about  half 
over,  when  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  angel,  or  fairy, 
or  whatever  she  was,  flagged  and  began  to  look 
tired.  Once  the  soldier  frowned,  and  made  a  gest 
ure  to  show  that  she  had  done  something  wrong, 
and  he  saw  a  frightened  wince  under  the  smiles  and 
paint  on  the  girl's  face.  Peter  Day  ground  his  teeth. 
How  dared  the  brute  look  that  way  at  his  sister  ? 
That  was  no  way  for  a  brother  to  act !  From  that 
point  he  only  looked  at  Bessie  ;  he  saw  her  growing 
white  and  whiter,  though  he  noticed  that  the  color 
in  her  cheek  was  as  bright  as  ever — which  seemed 
to  him  a  very  unhealthy  sign. 

"  It's  that  way  in  consumption,"  he  thought.  He 
felt  impelled  to  leap  up  on  the  stage  and  tell  her 
brother  he  ought  to  take  better  care  -of  her ;  and 
then  her  dancing  fascinated  him  so  that  he  forgot 
her  pallor  for  a  while  —  then  noticed  it,  with  sharp 
compunction. 

The  last  whirl  and  pigeon-wing,  the  last  kick  and 
flurry  of  gauze  skirts,  the  last  leer — then,  standing 
on  one  leg,  each  sister  kissed  her  hand,  bit  her  lip, 
looked  down  into  the  audience  and  winked,  and — 
it  was  over  ! 

Peter  Day  sat  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  Somebody 
55 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

cuffed  him  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  "  Did  they  put 
you  to  sleep?"  and  there  was  a  guffaw  of  laughter. 

He  shook  his  head  silently  and  got  up ;  he  looked 
about  in  a  dazed  way  for  a  minute,  and  then  went 
stumbling  out  into  the  cool  night. 

As  for  "  Bessie,"  she  sat  down  on  an  overturned 
soap-box  behind  the  scenes  and  panted. 

"  You've  got  a  mash,  Liz  !"  one  of  the  girls  called 
out,  beginning  to  wash  off  the  paint. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  tired  !"  she  said,  faintly.  "Oh,  this  is 
a  dog's  life  !" 

"  Guess  he's  waiting  at  the  side  door,"  Mamie  sug 
gested;  "he  looks  good  for  a  supper,  anyway.  Make 
him  stand  up  to  us  all,  Liz,  will  you  ?" 

"  Shut  up  !"  the  girl  said.     "  I'm  nearly  dead." 

"  You'll  hear  that  from  Dickinson,  I  bet,"  one  of 
the  "sisters"  informed  her;  and  then,  with  rough 
kindliness,  brought  her  a  dash  of  whiskey  in  a  dirty 
tumbler.  "  There,  brace  up  !  I  don't  believe  he'll 
say  anything.  My  God,  I  thought  you  were  going 
to  drop  there  once !  Did  you  see  Johnny  Mack  glare 
at  you  when  you  crossed  behind  ?  If  he'll  keep  his 
mouth  shut  and  not  complain,  I  guess  you  won't 
hear  from  it.  I  wish  you  didn't  have  to  move  on 
to-morrow,  though." 


Ill 

However,  they  did  move  on  ;  that  is  what  it  means 
to  be  "on  the  road"  and  have  one-night  stands.  The 
"  Montague  Sisters"  moved  on,  and  Peter  Day  moved 
with  them. 

The  first  step  into  liberty  had  been  taken  when 
he  went  to  the  play ;  then  some  door  seemed  to  shut 

56 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

behind  him  ;  the  automatic  life  stopped  short ;  he 
felt,  for  the  first  time  since  he  was  twenty  (when  his 
mother  had  nipped  in  the  bud  certain  tendencies 
towards  love-making),  the  consciousness  that  he  had 
a  life  of  his  own.  And  he  began  to  live  it.  He  an 
nounced  that  he  was  going  away  for  a  week  or  two. 

"  What  !  now  ?"  ejaculated  one  of  the  hands. 
"Why,  we're  that  busy — " 

"  I'm  going,"  his  employer  said,  and  set  his  lips  in 
a  dogged  way  that  he  had  learned  under  his  mother's 
scoldings  ;  it  meant  that  he  had  no  explanation  to 
give,  and  no  retort ;  but  it  meant,  too,  in  this  in 
stance,  will.  So  he  packed  a  valise  made  of  Brussels 
carpet — crimson  roses  on  a  cream -colored  ground 
— and  said  good-bye  to  Jim,  and  started. 

The  Montague  Sisters  went  to  Mercer,  and  on  to 
two  or  three  smaller  places,  and  then  back  again 
on  the  circuit  towards  Old  Chester.  It  took  nearly 
three  weeks,  and  Peter  Day  never  missed  a  perform 
ance.  The  company  grew  hysterical  with  laughter 
over  him  ;  the  "sisters"  played  to  him,  and  winked 
at  him,  and  kicked  their  high-heeled  slippered  feet 
in  his  direction,  and  threw  kisses  to  him  over  their 
white  shoulders  that  were  so  dangerously  above 
their  bodices  ;  but  it  was  more  than  a  week  before 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  manager  and  was 
introduced  to  them. 

"  It's  a  dead  mash  for  Liz,"  the  manager  an 
nounced.  "  Say,  Liz,  can't  you  get  him  to  give  you 
a  theatre?  Come,  now,  don't  forget  the  company 
when  you  strike  it  rich."  Liz  laughed,  and  groaned, 
and  dropped  down  on  the  broken  springs  of  the 
horse-hair  couch  in  the  parlor  of  the  little  hotel. 

"  Somebody'd  better  give  me  a  grave,"  she  said, 
s  57 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Say,  Dickinson,  I'm  played  out."  She  began  to  cry, 
and  the  manager  told  her,  good-naturedly,  not  to  be 
a  fool. 

"  I'll  send  you  up  something  that'll  make  you  feel 
better,"  he  said.  But  the  cocktail  and  the  kindness 
only  made  her  cry  the  more. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  become  of  me,"  she 
told  the  "  sisters."  "  I  can't  keep  this  up  ;  there's  no 
use  talking !" 

Mamie  sat  down  on  the  table,  swinging  her  legs 
back  and  forth,  and  looking  concerned.  "Well,  now, 
can't  you  go  home  awhile  ?"  she  said. 

Bessie  looked  up  impatiently.  "  I  haven't  any 
home.  I  haven't  had  for  six  years.  I  came  into 
this  to  support  mother,  and  when  she — died,  I  didn't 
have  any  home.  As  for  relations,  I've  got  some  re 
lations  somewhere,  but  they're  too  good  for  the  likes 
of  me  !  No,  no  !"  She  got  up,  the  tears  dried  and 
her  dark  eyes  sparkling  wickedly ;  the  cocktail  had 
brought  a  little  color  into  her  cheeks,  and  she  was 
as  pretty  as  when  she  stood  before  the  foot-lights 
in  vivid  rouge  and  snow-white  powder.  She  took 
two  dancing  steps.  "  No — no  ! — 

"  I  care  for  nobody, 
And  nobody  cares  for  me  !" 

"  Except  Hayseed,"  Mamie  reminded  her,  with  a 
thoughtful  frown.  "  He  cares,  it  appears.  I  say, 
Liz,  I  suppose  you  could  lay  off,  and — " 

The  girl  turned  on  her  savagely.  "Now  look  here; 
shut  up  !  He's  good." 

Mamie  shrieked  with  laughter.  "Oh,  he  doesn't 
bite,  doesn't  he  ?" 

58 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

"  He  doesn't  try  to  make  me  bite,"  the  other  said, 
sharply  ;  then  suddenly  broke  down  again,  and  flung 
up  her  arms,  and  said  she  wished  she  was  dead. 
"  Talk  about  a  home  !  If  I  could  stop,  if  I  could 
have  a  little  house  of  my  own,  and  maybe  a  garden 
— well,  there  !  I'm  a  fool.  You  needn't  tell  me  ;  I 
know  it.  But  I  tell  you  what,  Mame,  it's  hell ;  that's 
what  it  is,  this  road  business — putting  yourself  up 
to  be  insulted  by  every  man  that  pays  fifty  cents  to 
see  you  dance.  I'm  dead  tired  of  it.  Oh,  my  God, 
I  wish  I  was  dead  !"  But  even  as  she  said  it  she 
burst  into  a  laugh,  her  brown  eyes  crinkling  up  with 
fun.  "  Mamie,  what  do  you  suppose  ?  He  asked  me 
to-day  what  my  sisters  thought  of  my  working  so 
hard.  *  Sisters  ?'  I  said — I  was  so  tired,  I  was  just 
dead  stupid.  '  Sisters  ?'  I  says.  *  I  haven't  any  sis 
ters.'  He  looked  dumb-struck.  Then  I  caught  on." 

"  He  is  an  innocent !"  Mamie  said. 

"  He's  good,"  the  other,  answered,  with  a  sob. 

She  was  as  inconsequent  and  unmoral,  this  little, 
flashing,  suffering,  pretty  creature,  as  the  sparkle  of 
sunshine  on  a  rippling  wave.  And  she  was,  just 
now,  almost  at  the  limit  of  her  strength.  The  sim 
ple-hearted  man  who,  through  his  big  steel-rimmed 
spectacles,  looked  at  her  every  night  from  the  first 
row,  and  came  to  see  her  every  morning,  as  silent 
and  as  faithful  as  a  dog,  saw  in  her  all  the  beauty 
and  grace  and  good-nature  of  which  his  harmless 
life  had  been  starved.  He  thought  to  himself,  over 
and  over,  how  pleasant  she  was.  He  had  had  little 
enough  pleasantness  in  his  forty  arid  years,  dear 
knows  !  so  it  was  easy  to  recognize  it  when  he  saw  it. 

He  was  bewildered,  and  dazzled,  and  happy,  and 
tumultuously  in  love.  He  felt  as  if  he  wanted 

59 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

to  play  with  her ;  to  romp,  and  run,  and  laugh,  as 
though  they  were  boy  and  girl.  He  was  getting 
young,  this  sober,  elderly  man,  and  the  warm-heart 
ed,  quick  -  witted  little  actress,  with  her  peals  of 
laughter,  her  funny  winks,  and  grimaces,  and  good- 
natured  raillery,  was  the  cause  of  it.  He  never  knew 
how  hotly  she  defended  him  from  the  suspicions  of 
the  rest  of  the  company ;  she  was  so  quick  to  recog 
nize  his  "goodness"  that  she  turned  white  with  an 
ger  when  his  motives  were  assailed.  When  he  told 
her  once,  blushing,  that  he  was  glad  she  just  only 
danced,  because  some  of  the  things  the  other  young 
ladies  said  weren't  just  according  to  his  notions,  she 
winced  and  set  her  white  teeth.  "  I  don't  like  those 
jokes,"  she  said  ;  "truly  I  don't,  Mr.  Day." 

He  laughed  at  that,  in  his  soft,  big  voice,  his  eyes 
beaming  at  her  through  his  spectacles. 

"  You  !  Well,  you  needn't  tell  me  that,  Miss  Mon 
tague.  You  don't  understand,  even.  Well,  now,  a 
girl  seems  to  me  just  like  one  of  those  white  butter 
flies  that's  always  round  milkweed.  You  know  'em? 
*  Brides,'  the  young  ones  call  them.  Their  wings — 
you  can't  hardly  breathe  on  'em  but  what  they're 
spoiled  i  Well,  it's  like  touching  their  wings  to  have 
girls  sing  trashy  songs  ;  and  I'm  right  sorry  the 
other  ladies  feel  obliged  to  do  it." 

"  Oh,  if  J  ever  had  time  to  go  to  walk  in  the  coun 
try  and  see  the  '  brides '  !"  she  said,  her  eyes  suddenly 
wet.  "I'm  pretty  tired  of  this  kind  of  life." 

He  made  an  impulsive  gesture,  and  opened  his  lips ; 
but  he  dared  not  speak.  As  for  her,  she  went  into  the 
hotel  parlor,  and  sat  on  the  horse-hair  sofa  under  the 
steel  engraving  of  the  "  Landing  of  the  Pilgrims," 
and  told  Mamie  she  wished  she  was  dead. 

60 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

Peter  Day  knew  no  better  than  to  make  his  pro 
test  to  Dickinson,  who  winked  at  the  barkeeper  to 
call  his  attention  to  the  joke.  "  I'm  thinking  of  get 
ting  up  a  Sunday-school  play  for  'em  next  season," 
he  said. 

Peter  was  no  fool  ;  he  did  not  pursue  the  subject; 
but  he  had  his  own  views.  In  his  cramped,  unlovely 
life,  the  single  exponent  of  the  everlasting  feminine 
had  been  his  mother.  Yet  he  had  his  ideals  :  he  be 
lieved  in  goodness  and  in  purity  in  a  way  that  even 
a  man  who  had  known  them  in  their  human  limita 
tions  might  not  have  done.  In  his  grave  and  simple 
way,  he  knew  the  world  was  wicked.  But  he  would 
not  have  those  white-winged  creatures  whom  he  re 
vered  have  even  so  much  knowledge  as  that. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  week  the  Montague  Sisters 
came  to  Old  Chester ;  they  had  two  nights  here,  and 
it  was  on  the  second  night  that  Bessie  broke  down 
absolutely,  and  fainted  dead  away.  They  were  all 
very  kind  to  her — the  manager  and  the  other  "  sis 
ters."  They  were  in  and  out  of  her  room  all  that 
night,  and  Dickinson  would  have  given  her  all  the 
whiskey  the  tavern  afforded  if  it  would  have  done  any 
good.  But  business  is  business  ;  the  troupe  was  ad 
vertised  to  appear  in  the  next  town,  and  they  had  to 
move  on.  So,  with  protestations,  and  most  honest 
anxiety,  and  the  real,  practical  kindness  of  leaving 
some  money  for  her  board  with  the  tavern-keeper, 
they  moved  on.  But  Peter  Day  stayed  behind. 

He  saw  her  every  day  for  a  week ;  he  went  up  to 
her  room,  and  washed  her  little  hot  face  and  hands, 
and  fed  her  with  cracked  ice,  and  told  her  about 
Jim  ;  and  his  eyes,  behind  his  magnifying  spectacles, 
beamed  like  two  kindly  moons. 

61 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  I'm  going  to  marry  her,"  he  told  the  tavern- 
keeper,  "  just  as  soon  as  she  can  get  out." 

It  was  a  week  before  she  could  sit  up  ;  when  she 
did,  in  a  big  wooden  rocking-chair,  with  roses  painted 
on  the  back,  and  slippery  linen  covers  tied  on  the 
arms,  he  came  and  sat  beside  her  and  put  his  hand 
on  hers. 

"  Miss  Montague,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling,  "  I 
am  going  to  ask  a — a  favor." 

"  My  name  isn't  Montague,"  she  told  him,  her  eyes 
crinkling  with  a  laugh ;  "  that's  only  my  stage 
name." 

"  Oh  !"  he  said,  blankly  ;  "  I  thought  it  was.  Still,  it 
doesn't  matter;  because — because,  Miss  Montague — " 

"  Donald,"  she  interrupted,  smiling. 

"  Because,  Miss  Donald,  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to 
— to  change  it." 

"  Change  it  ?  My  name  ?"  she  said.  "  You  don't 
mean — " 

"  I  want  you  to  marry  me,"  he  said,  his  hand  sud 
denly  closing  hard  on  hers.  She  drew  back  with  a 
cry  ;  looked  at  him  with  wide  eyes  ;  then  she  put  her 
hands  over  her  face  and  began  to  cry,  poor  child,  in 
a  wailing,  heart-broken  way.  To  cry — and  cry — and 
cry,  while  he  just  put  his  arms  about  her  and  drew 
her  head  down  on  his  breast,  and  stroked  her  soft, 
dark,  curling  hair,  soothing  her  and  cuddling  her, 
and  saying  :  "  There — there  !  I  frightened  you. 
Never  mind  ;  it's  only  me.  It's  only  Peter.  There, 
there,  there  !" 

She  tried  to  say  :  "  No  ;  oh  no  !  he  must  not  think 
of  it.  He — he  didn't  know  her.  Oh  no — no!  She  was 
not  good  enough.  No,  she  couldn't,  she  couldn't  !" 

But  he  gathered  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  put  his 
62 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

cheek  down  against  her  hair,  and  said,  "  There,  there; 
it's  all  right,  and  I'll  get  the  license." 

She  was  so  weak  that  suddenly  she  fainted,  and 
Peter  was  like  a  madman  until  young  Dr.  King  had 
been  rushed  in,  and  had  said  it  was  all  right,  and  she 
would  be  none  the  worse  the  next  morning.  Which, 
indeed,  she  was  not.  Something  had  braced  her  ; 
perhaps  it  was  the  human  kindness  that  went  to  her 
heart  like  wine. 

"  I'll  be  good  to  him  ;  I'll  make  it  up  to  him,"  she 
said,  crying  peacefully  to  herself.  "  Oh,  I  will  be 
good  to  him  ;  and  I'm  so  tired — tired — tired.  And 
I'll  do  everything  for  him.  And  I  can  rest  ;  for  all 
my  life,  I  can  just  rest." 

So  that  was  how  it  came  about  that,  the  evening 
of  the  first  day  she  was  able  to  go  out,  Peter  took  her, 
carried  her  almost,  to  Dr.  Lavendar's  study,  where 
they  were  reminded  that  marriage  was  not  to  be  en 
tered  into  lightly  or  unadvisedly — but  soberly,  dis 
creetly,  and  in  the  fear  of  God. 


IV 

Of  course  it  is  perfectly  obvious  how  a  "  sober  and 
discreet "  marriage  of  this  nature  must  end.  The 
elderly,  simple-minded,  plain  countryman,  and  the 
little  actress  whose  past  had  never  been  laid  under 
her  neighbor's  eyes — what  could  happen,  says  the 
wise  world,  but  disaster  and  pain  ? 

And  yet  neither  befell. 

He  took  her  home,  this  gentle,  passionate,  pitying 
husband,  and  nursed  her,  and  petted  her,  and  played 
with  her.  All  the  checked  and  stunted  youth  in  him 

63 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

blossomed  out.  He  told  her  his  thoughts — for  in  his 
slow  way  he  had  thoughts.  He  let  her  see  his  sim 
ple  adoration  of  the  ideals  which  she  embodied — 
gentleness,  and  prettiness,  and  purity.  He  was  jeal 
ous  to  shield  her  from  every  rough  wind,  from  every 
cruel  knowledge  ;  all  the  love  of  all  his  bleak  un 
lovely  life  was  poured  into  her  lap.  And  she  was 
very  "  pleasant  "  with  him.  She  felt  towards  Peter 
that  warm-hearted  admiration  which  begins  in  appre 
ciation  and  ends  in  love.  He  was  so  good  to  her — 
that  was  the  first  thing  the  wife  felt ;  and  then,  he 
was  so  good  ! 

She  laughed  at  him  and  sung  to  him,  and  even  put 
on  her  pink  dress  and  danced  for  him  sometimes. 
And  she  brought  Jim  into  the  very  parlor  itself  ! 
At  first,  very  likely,  it  was  all  part  of  the  play  of  life 
to  her.  She  could  appreciate,  if  Peter  could  not,  the 
stage  setting,  so  to  speak — the  bare,  ugly  parlor,  with 
its  landscape-papered  walls  and  faded  photographs  of 
dead  relatives  hanging  in  oval  black  frames  very 
near  the  ceiling  ;  the  lustres  on  the  high  wooden 
mantel-piece  ;  the  big  Bible  on  the  crocheted  mat  of 
the  centre-table ;  the  uncomfortable  horse-hair  sofa, 
and  the  rosewood  chairs  standing  at  exact  angles  in 
the  windows  ;  and  Peter,  with  Jim's  head  on  his  knee, 
sitting,  gaping  at  her — gaping  at  the  incongruous, 
joyous,  dancing  figure,  with  the  pink  skirt  twirling 
over  pink  gauze  petticoats  !  At  first  the  fun  of  the 
contrast  was  a  keen  enjoyment ;  but  after  a  while — 

However,  that  came  later. 

Meantime  she  rested.  Sometimes  on  his  knee,  with 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  while  he  tried  to  read  his 
agricultural  paper,  but  had  to  stop  because  she  teased 
him  into  laughter  ;  sometimes  on  a  little  couch  out 

64 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

under  the  trees,  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  house,  where 
she  could  see  Peter  working  in  the  garden.  She 
found  not  only  rest  but  intense  interest  in  this  gar 
den,  which,  to  be  sure,  was  rather  commonplace. 
There  were  clumps  of  perennials  in  the  borders,  upon 
which  each  year  the  grass  encroached  more  and  more; 
and  there  were  shrubs,  and  some  seedlings  sown  as  the 
wind  listed,  and  there  were  a  dozen  ragged  old  rose 
bushes.  But  Bessie  Day  threw  herself  into  taking  care 
of  all  the  friendly,  old-fashioned  fragrance,  heart  and 
soul,  and  body  too,  which  made  her  tired  and  strong 
and  happy  all  together.  She  used  to  lie  awake  those 
summer  nights  and  plan  the  garden  she  was  going  to 
have  next  year  ;  and  she  pored  over  seedmen's  cata 
logues  with  a  passionate  happiness  that  made  her 
bright  face  brighter  and  brought  a  look  of  keen  and 
joyous  interest  into  her  eyes. 

That  was  the  first  year  ;  the  second,  the  ballet 
dress  was  put  away,  for  there  was  a  baby  ;  and  by- 
and-by  there  were  two  babies — a  young  Peter  and  a 
young  Donald.  And  then  a  little  girl  that  the  father 
said  must  be  named  Pleasant.  It  was  then  that 
Bessie  got  dissatisfied  with  her  own  name,  and  in 
sisted  that  she  be  called  Elizabeth.  So  the  old  name, 
like  the  old  pink  satin  dress  and  fan  and  high-heeled 
slippers,  was  put  away  in  the  past.  Sometimes  Peter 
talked  about  them,  but  Elizabeth  would  scold  him 
and  say  she  was  tired  of  them,  and  she  wouldn't  al 
low  them  to  be  mentioned.  "I'll  steal  your  spec 
tacles,  Peter,  if  you  tease  me,"  she  would  threaten, 
gayly ;  "  I  go  to  church,  nowadays,  and  the  minister 
says  it  isn't  right  to  dance — though  I  don't  know  that 
I  just  agree  with  him,"  she  would  add,  a  little  gravely. 

"  Anything  you  ever  did  was  right — right  enough 
65 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

for  a  minister  to  do  himself !"  Peter  would  declare, 
stoutly. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  the  parson  in  pink  petti 
coats,"  Elizabeth  would  retort,  her  eyes  twinkling 
with  fun. 

She  always  went  to  church  with  Peter,  and  he  kept 
awake  to  look  at  her  pretty  face  in  her  Sunday  bon 
net  ;  and  later,  when  the  children  were  old  enough 
to  come,  too,  he  had  his  hands  full  to  keep  the  boys 
in  order,  and  not  let  them  read  their  library  books 
during  the  sermon.  Elizabeth,  in  her  best  lavender 
silk,  which  had  little  sprigs  over  it,  and  an  embroid 
ered  white  crepe  shawl,  and  a  bonnet  with  soft 
white  strings,  sat  at  the  top  of  the  pew,  with  Pleas- 
ant's  sleepy  head  against  her  shoulder,  looking  so 
cheerful  and  pretty  that  it  was  no  wonder  Peter 
looked  oftener  at  her  than  at  the  parson. 

As  for  the  neighbors,  social  life  came  slowly,  be 
cause  of  Peter's  long  indifference  to  it ;  but  it  came, 
and  people  said  they  liked  Mrs.  Day  because  she  was 
so  different  from  other  folks — "  always  real  pleasant," 
her  neighbors  said.  "  I  never  heard  Peter's  wife  say 
a  hard  word  about  anybody,"  Henry  Davis  said  once; 
"  and  when  a  woman's  got  a  smart  tongue,  like  she 
has,  they  most  always  say  funny  things  about  other 
folks  that  make  you  laugh,  but  would  hurt  the  folks' 
feelings  if  they  heard  'em.  But  Mrs.  Day  she's  just 
pleasant  all  the  time." 

So  the  placid  years  came  and  went,  and  by-and-by 
Peter's  wife  was  no  longer  slight  ;  but  she  was  as 
light  on  her  feet  as  a  girl,  and  her  face  was  as  bright 
and  pretty  as  ever,  and  her  laugh  was  like  the  sunny 
chuckle  of  a  brook  ;  her  children  and  her  garden  and 
her  husband  filled  her  life,  and  she  made  theirs. 

66 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

It  was  nearly  ten  years  before  that  shadow,  of 
whose  coming  the  world  would  have  had  no  doubt, 
fell,  little  by  little,  into  the  dark  bright  eyes  and 
across  the  smiling  lips.  Fell,  and  deepened  and 
deepened. 

"  You're  not  well,  wife  ?"  Peter  said,  anxiously. 

"  Nonsense  !"  she  said,  smiling  at  him. 

But  when  he  left  her,  her  face  settled  into  heavy 
lines. 

"  If  you  don't  look  better  to  -  morrow,"  Peter 
threatened,  "  I'll  have  the  doctor." 

"  The  doctor  !"  his  wife  cried,  laughing.  "  Why,  I 
am  perfectly  well." 

And,  indeed,  the  doctor  could  not  discover  that 
she  was  ill  in  any  way.  "  Then  why  does  she  look 
so  badly  ?"  Peter  urged,  blinking  at  him  with  anxious 
eyes. 

"  Oh,  she's  a  little  overtired,"  the  doctor  assured 
him,  easily.  "  I  think  she  works  too  hard  in  that 
garden  of  hers.  I  think  I'd  put  a  stop  to  that,  Mr. 
Day." 

And  having  done  his  worst,  this  worthy  meddler 
with  the  body  departed,  to  prescribe  physical  ex 
ercise  for  a  brain-worker  at  the  point  of  exhaustion. 
But  Peter  was  grateful  for  some  positive  instructions. 

"  The  children  and  I  will  take  care  of  the  garden, 
and  you  can  just  look  on.  What  you  need  is  rest." 

So,  to  please  him,  she  tried  to  rest ;  but  the  shadow 
deepened  in  her  eyes,  and  the  fret  of  thought  wore 
lines  in  her  smooth  forehead.  She  shook  her  head 
over  Peter's  offer  to  take  care  of  the  garden. 

"  What  !  trust  my  precious  flowers  to  a  mere 
man?"  she  cried,  with  the  old  gayety,  and  bur 
lesque  anger.  "  Indeed  I  won't  !" 

67 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

The  garden  Peter  had  made  for  her  was  a  great 
two-hundred-foot  square,  sunk  between  four  green 
terraces  ;  it  was  packed  with  all  sorts  of  flowers,  and 
overflowing  with  fragrance  ;  all  the  beds  were  bor 
dered  with  sweet-alyssum  and  mignonette,  and  with 
in  them  the  flowers  stood,  pressing  their  glowing 
faces  together  in  masses  of  riotous  color — the  glit 
tering  satin  yellow  of  California  poppies,  the  heav 
enly  blue  of  nemophila  ;  crimson  mallow,  snow-white 
shining  phlox  ;  sweet  -  pease  and  carnations,  gilly 
flowers  and  bachelor's-buttons,  and  everywhere  the 
golden  sparks  of  coreopsis  ;  there  were  blots  of  burn 
ing  scarlet,  sheets  of  orange  and  lilac  and  dazzling 
white.  Elizabeth  used  to  sit  down  by  some  border 
to  weed,  smiling  at  her  flowers,  putting  her  fingers 
under  some  shy  sweet  face,  to  raise  it,  and  look  down 
into  it,  rejoicing  in  the  texture  and  color  and  per 
fume — and  then,  suddenly,  her  pleasant  eyes  would 
cloud  and  her  energy  flag,  and  she  would  sit  there, 
absent  and  heavy,  the  pain  wearing  deep  into  her 
forehead. 

By  the  time  another  year  had  come  her  whole  face 
had  changed  ;  her  eyes  so  rarely  crinkled  up  with 
fun  that  one  had  a  chance  to  see  how  big  and  sad 
and  terror-stricken  they  had  grown,  and  her  mouth 
took  certain  pitiful  lines,  and  seemed  always  about 
to  open  into  sad  and  wailing  words.  Another  year 
— they  had  been  married  twelve  years  now — had  cer 
tainly  brought  this  husband  and  wife  nearer  to  that 
dreadful  verge  of  disaster,  which  the  sober  looker-on 
must  surely  have  prophesied  on  that  night  when  the 
man  and  woman  stood  up  to  be  married  in  Dr.  Lav- 
endar's  study. 

It  was  in  June  that  Elizabeth  Day  said  to  her  hus- 
68 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

band,  gayly,  that  she  had  a  plan.  "  Now  don't  scold, 
Peter,  but  listen.  I  suppose  you  will  say  I'm  crazy  ; 
but  I  have  a  notion  I  want  to  go  off  and  take  a 
drive,  all  by  myself,  for  a  whole  day." 

"  I'll  drive  you,"  he  said,  "  anywhere  you  want." 

"  No,"  she  said,  coming  and  sitting  on  his  knee  ; 
"  no  ;  let  me  go  by  myself.  I'll  tell  you  :  I  think  I'm 
a  little  nervous,  and  I've  a  notion  to  take  a  drive  by 
myself.  I  think  maybe  I'll  feel  better  for  it." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  wistfully,  "  if  you  want  to  ;  but 
I'd  like  to  go  with  you." 

But  she  would  not  listen  to  that  ;  and  she  was  so 
cheerful  at  the  very  prospect  of  her  drive — "just 
real  senseless  glad  !"  her  husband  called  it,  anxious 
ly — that  he  began  to  think  that  perhaps  she  was 
right,  and  it  would  do  her  good. 

"  Like  giving  a  sick  person  what  they've  got  a 
longing  for,"  he  told  himself.  "  I  know  mother  told 
me  how  she  knew  of  a  child  that  was  getting  over 
scarlet-fever,  and  wanted  a  pickle,  and  teased  and 
teased  for  it  ;  and  they  gave  it  to  her  and  she  got 
well.  Very  likely  Elizabeth  just  has  a  kind  of  crav 
ing  to  ride  round  for  a  day.  Well,  she  shall.  Mercy  ! 
she  shall  have  just  anything  in  the  Lord's  world,  if 
I  can  get  it  for  her  !  I  wish  the  buggy  wasn't  so 
shabby.  I  must  be  getting  a  new  one  for  her." 

Still,  when  the  moment  came  for  her  to  start,  he 
was  anxious  again. 

"  Suppose  you  take  one  of  the  children  along  for 
company  ?"  he  said,  as  he  helped  her  into  the  buggy. 
(Oh,  how  light  she  was  !  What  a  thrill  and  tremor 
he  felt  in  her  hand  when  his  big  fingers  closed  over 
it!)  "Take  Pleasant,"  he  entreated.  And  she 
agreed,  with  a  sigh. 

69 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  I  don't  mind,  if  you  want  me  to,  Peter." 

So  Pleasant,  uttering  shrieks  of  joy,  ran  for  her 
hat,  and  began  to  climb  up  to  join  her  mother,  too 
excited  to  wait  for  her  father's  helping  hand. 

Elizabeth  Day  gathered  up  the  reins  and  gave  a 
little  flickering  look  up  at  the  front  of  the  house — at 
the  two  boys  sitting  on  the  porch  steps — at  her  hus 
band  standing  beside  the  buggy,  stretching  over  the 
wheels  to  tuck  the  duster  around  her  feet.  It  was 
early — she  had  stipulated  for  an  early  start — the  dew 
stretched  like  a  cobweb  over  the  grass,  and  in  the 
border  a  cloud  of  scarlet  poppies  were  beaded  with 
drops  like  silver  ;  the  honeysuckle  at  the  end  of  the 
porch  was  pouring  its  fragrance  from  curved  and 
polished  horns.  She  had  planted  that  honeysuckle 
twelve  years  ago.  How  happy  she  had  been  then  ! 
Now,  faithful  wife,  tender  mother,  modest,  careful 
housewife — good,  too,  she  thought  to  herself,  humbly 
— she  was  not  happy.  Oh,  most  miserable,  most 
miserable  f 

How  strange  it  is  that  the  tree  whose  fruit  is  suf 
fering  and  pain,  is  the  knowledge  of  good  as  well  as 
of  evil  !  Perhaps  the  single  knowledge  of  either 
would  not  mean  anything  ;  or  perhaps  there  cannot 
be  knowledge  of  one  without  knowledge  of  the 
other.  Here  is  a  great  mystery  :  we  poor  little 
creatures  cannot  understand  that  He  both  makes 
peace  and  creates  evil  for  his  own  purposes — for  sin 
is  the  prerogative  of  God.  This  poor  girl,  in  her 
pure  and  placid  life  here  on  the  farm,  had  eaten  of 
this  tree,  and  the  anguish  of  the  knowledge  of  good 
ness  had  fallen  on  her.  She  groaned  under  her 
breath,  looking  at  the  dear  house  and  at  the  dear 
love.  .  .  . 

70 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

Elizabeth  shook  the  reins  and  nodded,  smiling : 
"  Good-bye,  boys,  don't  bother  father  ;  be  good  chil 
dren.  Good-bye,  Peter." 

"  When  will  you  be  back  ?"  her  husband  said,  his 
hand  on  the  bridle — the  horse  backed  and  fretted, 
and  his  wife  scolded  good-naturedly. 

"  I'll  never  get  off  i  Come  !  go  on,  Captain.  Oh, 
well,  then — to-night,  maybe." 

"To-night!"  Peter  echoed,  blankly.  "Well,  I 
should  say  so  !  Pleasant,  take  care  of  mother ;" 
and  he  let  her  start,  but  stood  looking  down  the 
road,  watching  the  hood  of  the  buggy  jogging  up 
and  down,  until  the  light  dust  hid  it. 

Elizabeth  leaned  back  in  her  seat  and  drew  a  great 
breath  of  relief.  Pleasant,  smiling  all  over  her  little 
round  face,  looked  up  at  her. 

"  Mother,  may  I  hold  the  reins  ?"  she  said. 

"Take  the  ends  of  them,"  Elizabeth  said  ;  "  moth 
er  will  keep  her  hands  in  front  of  yours,  for  fear 
Captain  should  take  a  notion  to  run." 

Pleasant,  beaming,  and  crinkling  her  eyes  up  as 
her  mother  had  done  before  her,  shook  and  jerked  at 
the  ends  of  the  reins,  saying,  "  Get  up,  there  !"  and 
clucked  as  she  had  heard  her  father  do  ;  then,  squar 
ing  her  elbows,  she  braced  her  feet  against  the  dash 
board.  "  If  Captain  was  to  run,  mother,  this  is  the 
way  I'd  stop  him,"  she  said,  proudly. 

"  Yes,  dear  child,"  the  mother  answered,  mechani 
cally.  She  drove  without  any  uncertainty  or  hesita 
tion  as  to  her  route,  and  carefully  sparing  her  horse 
as  one  who  has  a  long  journey  before  her.  It  was 
growing  warmer  ;  the  dew  had  burned  off,  and  the 
misty  look  of  early  morning  had  brightened  into 
clear  soft  blue  without  a  cloud.  There  was  a  shal- 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

low  run  beside  the  road,  which  chattered  and 
chuckled  over  its  pebbly  bed,  or  plunged  down  in 
little  waterfalls  a  foot  high,  running  over  stones 
smooth  with  moss,  or  stopping  in  the  shadows  under 
leaning  trees,  and  spreading  into  little  pools,  as  clear 
and  shining  and  brown  as  Pleasant's  eyes. 

"  It  would  be  nice  to  wade,  wouldn't  it,  mother  ?" 
the  child  said ;  and  the  mother  said  again,  mechan 
ically, 

"Yes,  dear." 

But  she  did  not  look  at  the  run,  which  by-and-by 
widened  into  a  creek  as  it  and  the  road  went  on 
together  ;  and  when  Captain  began  to  climb  a  long, 
sunny  slope,  she  only  knew  the  difference  because 
the  sweating  horse  fell  into  an  easy  walk.  Pleasant 
chattered  without  ceasing. 

"  It's  nice  to  come  with  you,  mother.  Where  are 
we  going?  Mother,  I  think  I  must  have  been  unu 
sually  good,  don't  you,  for  God  to  let  me  have  this 
ride,  and  hold  Captain's  reins  ?  I  wonder  if  Captain 
knows  I've  got  the  ends  of  the  reins?  He  doesn't 
try  to  run,  you  see  ;  I  guess  he  knows  he  couldn't, 
with  me  to  help  you  hold  him.  Oh,  look  at  the  bird 
sitting  on  the  fence  !  Well,  I'm  glad  I've  been  good 
lately — or  else,  probably,  I  wouldn't  have  come  with 
you.  Donald  was  bad  yesterday  ;  he  pulled  the  kit 
ty's  tail  very  hard ;  so  I  notice  God  didn't  let  him 
come.  I  never  pull  the  kitty's  tail,"  Pleasant  ended, 
virtuously.  Then  she  said,  "Get  up,  Captain  !"  and 
jerked  the  reins  so  hard  that  her  mother  came  out 
of  her  thoughts  with  a  start. 

"Don't,  Pleasant !     Don't  pull  so,  dear." 

"  Mother,  when  you  were  a  little  girl,  did  you  ever 
go  and  drive  with  your  mother,  like  me  ?" 

72 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

"Yes,  Pleasant." 

"  Was  she  nice — was  she  as  nice  as  you  ?" 

"A  great  deal  nicer,  Pleasant." 

"  My  !"  said  Pleasant.  "  I  suppose  she  let  you  drive 
altogether — not  just  with  the  ends  of  the  reins?" 

Elizabeth  did  not  answer.  Pleasant  slipped  off 
the  seat  and  leaned  over  the  dash-board  to  pat  Cap 
tain  ;  then  tried  sitting  sidewise  with  her  legs  un 
der  her. 

"  This  is  the  way  the  cat  sits  ;  I  never  understood 
before  what  she  did  with  her  back  legs.  The  tail  is 
easy  ;  she  just  lays  it  over  her  front  legs."  Then  she 
slid  down  again  to  sit  on  the  floor  of  the  buggy  and 
hang  her  head  over  the  wheel  to  see  the  tracks  in 
the  dust.  Elizabeth  came  out  of  her  dream  at  this, 
and  bade  the  child  get  up  on  the  seat. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  Pleasant  said,  climbing 
up  joyfully  ;  but  she  had  to  repeat  her  question  be 
fore  her  mother  heard  it. 

"  To  Old  Chester,  dear  child." 

"  Oh,  that's  miles  and  miles  away  !"  Pleasant  said, 
excitedly  ;  and  turned  and  knelt  down  on  the  seat 
so  that  she  could  clasp  her  mother's  neck  with  both 
little  warm,  loving  arms.  "  Oh,  I  am  glad  we're  go 
ing  so  far  away  ;  it's  so  interesting  to  take  a  long 
journey.  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  turning  round 
pretty  soon.  Who  are  you  going  to  see,  mother  ?" 

**  I'm  going  to  see  a  minister  who  lives  there, 
Pleasant." 

Pleasant  looked  serious,  as  befitted  the  mention  of 
a  minister. 

"Why  are  you  going  to  see  a  minister?" 

"  Pleasant,  you  must  not  ask  so  many  questions  ! 
I  never  knew  a  little  girl  talk  so  much." 
6  73 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Pleasant  looked  troubled,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Well,  mother,  it's  my  thoughts.  If  I  didn't  have 
so  many  thoughts,  I  wouldn't  talk.  Do  you  have 
thoughts,  mother?" 

Elizabeth  laughed.     "Well,  yes,  Pleasant,  I  do." 

"  Well,  you  see  !"  cried  Pleasant,  triumphantly. 
"  Tell  me  a  few  of  your  thoughts,  please,  mother." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  child,  do  be  quiet !"  the  mother  en 
treated.  "  Oh,  my  God /"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 
There  was  something  in  her  face  that  did  silence  the 
child,  for  a  time  at  least.  Elizabeth  drew  up  at  a 
spring  under  the  trees  by  the  road-side,  and  brought 
out  a  lunch-basket  and  gave  the  little  girl  something 
to  eat.  She  did  not  eat  herself,  but  sat  absently 
flecking  at  a  weed  with  her  whip,  and  watching  Cap 
tain  plunging  his  nose  down  into  the  trough.  Pleas 
ant  climbed  out  to  get  a  drink,  putting  her  lips 
against  the  mossy  wooden  pipe  from  which  a  single 
sparkling  thread  of  water  fell  into  the  great  hollowed 
log.  They  could  hear  some  one  whetting  a  scythe 
in  a  field  higher  up  on  the  hill,  above  the  woods. 
The  sunshine  sifted  down  through  the  thick  foliage, 
and  the  yellow  flower  of  the  jewel  -  weed,  just  on 
the  edge  of  the  trough,  caught  it,  and  glittered  like 
a  topaz.  Captain  stamped  a  little  among  the  wet 
stones  and  mud,  and  pulled  at  the  reins  ;  and  Eliza 
beth  said,  "  Well,  go  'long,  Captain." 

The  horse  started  in  a  steady  jogging  trot,  keep 
ing  carefully  on  the  shady  side  of  the  road.  A  fresh 
wind  had  sprung  up,  and  along  the  horizon  a  few 
white  clouds  had  heaped  themselves  into  shining 
domes,  but  the  sky  was  exquisitely  and  serenely 
blue.  The  creek  had  widened  into  a  little  narrow 
river,  deep  and  brown,  and  fringed  with  sycamores ; 

74 


V 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

men  were  haying  in  the  meadows  and  in  the  or 
chards  on  the  hill-sides,  and  the  hot  smell  of  newly 
cut  grass  was  in  the  air. 

Elizabeth  Day  drew  up  beside  a  mile  -  post,  and 
leaned  out  of  the  buggy,  trying  to  read  the  nearly 
effaced  figures.  "  It's  only  three  miles  more,  Pleas 
ant,"  she  said,  breathlessly. 

"  Shall  we  get  some  dinner  in  Old  Chester  ?"  Pleas 
ant  asked,  with  anxiety. 

"  Why,  my  dear  child,  you've  just  had  some  din 
ner.  Still,  there  is  more  in  the  basket,  if  you  want 
it.  You  can  eat  it  while  I  get  out  and  visit  with  the 
minister.  You  must  be  a  good  girl,  Pleasant,  and 
wait  outside  in  the  buggy.  I'll  hitch  Captain." 

"  I'll  hold  the  reins,"  Pleasant  declared  ;  "he  won't 
try  and  run  if  you  hitch  him  and  I  hold  the  reins. 
Captain  is  a  good  old  horse  —  good  Captain  !  good 
boy  !"  she  continued,  hanging  over  the  dash-board 
to  stroke  his  black  tail.  Captain  switched  it,  with 
mild  impatience,  and  Pleasant  drew  back,  offended ; 
then  tried  sliding  off  the  seat :  "  But  the  dash-board 
gets  in  the  way  of  my  knees,"  she  complained.  Her 
mother  did  not  notice  her.  The  little  warm  body 
pressing  against  her,  the  sudden  embraces,  the 
bubbling  words,  the  overflowing  activity  and  rest 
lessness,  were  like  the  touch  of  foam  against  a 
rock. 

"Mother,"  Pleasant  began,  "one  of  my  thoughts 
was,  whose  little  girl  would  I  be  if  you  hadn't  mar 
ried  father  ?  Would  I  live  with  him,  or  would  I  live 
with  you?  It's  very  interesting  to  have  thoughts 
like  that,"  said  Pleasant. 

"  It's  very  foolish,"  Elizabeth  said,  sharply  ;  and 
again  the  child  was  silenced,  looking  sidewise  at  her 

75 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

mother,  not  knowing  whether  she  had  been  naughty 
or  not. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  when  they  reached  Old  Ches 
ter.  Pleasant  was  quite  cheerful  again,  and  bubbling 
over  with  questions. 

Mrs.  Day  was  pale,  and  her  whole  body  tingled 
and  trembled.  How  familiar  it  all  was  :  The  stone 
tavern  with  the  wide  porch — that  had  been  her  win 
dow,  the  one  in  the  corner.  She  had  sat  there,  in 
the  painted  rocking  -  chair,  when  Peter  told  her  he 
wanted  to  marry  her.  And  that  was  the  church  ; 
right  beyond  it  was  the  minister's  house.  She  re 
membered  that  they  had  walked  across  the  green  in 
front  of  the  church  to  go  to  the  rectory.  It  sudden 
ly  came  over  her,  in  a  wave  of  terror,  that  he  might 
be  dead,  that  old  man  !  She  took  out  the  whip,  and 
struck  Captain  sharply  ;  he  leaped  forward,  and  the 
jerk  fairly  knocked  the  breath  out  of  Pleasant,  who 
was  in  the  middle  of  a  question.  Elizabeth  felt, 
poor  woman,  that  she  could  not  bear  one  instant's 
more  anxiety  :  if  he  were  dead —  oh,  what  should 
she  do  ?  He  had  been  an  old  man,  she  remem 
bered. 

Captain  went  briskly  down  the  street,  and  Eliza 
beth  was  so  weak  with  misery  and  apprehension  she 
could  scarcely  stop  him  at  the  parsonage  gate. 


"  Will  you  be  quiet,  Pleasant,  and  not  get  out  ?" 
Elizabeth  said.  She  got  the  oat-bag  from  the  back 
of  the  buggy,  and  then  pulled  the  weight  from  un 
der  the  seat  and  fastened  the  catch  into  Captain's 

76 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

bit.  He  put  his  soft  nose  against  her  wrist,  and  she 
stopped,  trembling,  to  pat  him. 

Then  she  went  up  the  path  between  the  garden 
borders  :  she  and  Peter  had  walked  along  that  path. 
Oh  dear,  she  was  beginning  to  cry  !  She  could  not 
speak  to  the  minister  if  she  was  going  to  cry.  She 
had  to  wait  and  wipe  her  eyes  and  let  the  tremor  and 
swelling  of  her  throat  subside  before  she  rang  and 
asked  if  she  might  see  Dr.  Lavendar. 

"  He's  goin'  to  have  his  dinner  in  about  fifteen 
minutes,"  Mary  said,  sourly.  She  did  not  mean  to 
have  the  rectory  meals  delayed  by  inconsiderate  peo 
ple  arriving  at  twelve  o'clock.  "And  she'll  worry 
the  life  out  of  him,  anyhow,"  Mary  reflected  :  Mary 
had  seen  too  many  tragic  faces  come  to  that  door 
not  to  recognize  this  one. 

"  Who's  there  ?"  demanded  Dr.  Lavendar  from  the 
study  ;  and  then  came  peering  out  into  the  hall,  which 
was  dusky,  because  the  vines  hung  low  over  the  lin 
tel,  letting  the  light  filter  in  green  and  soft  across 
the  threshold.  When  he  saw  the  strange  face  he 
came  forward  to  welcome  her.  He  had  on  a  flowered 
dressing  -  gown,  and  his  spectacles  had  been  pushed 
back  and  rested  on  his  white  hair,  which  stood  up 
very  stiff  and  straight.  "  Come  in,"  he  said,  abrupt 
ly  ;  and  Mary,  feeling  herself  worsted,  retired,  mut 
tering,  to  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Day  followed  the  minister  into  the  study,  but 
when  he  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  pointed  to  a 
chair,  and  said,  cheerfully,  "And  what  can  I  do  for 
you,  ma'am  ?"  she  could  hardly  find  her  voice  to  an 
swer  him. 

She  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  relief  that  the  room 
did  not  look  as  it  did  the  night  that  she  and  Peter 

77 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

had  stood  up  to  be  married.  The  furniture  had  been 
moved  about,  and  there  was  sunshine  instead  of 
lamp-light,  and  through  the  open  window  she  could 
see  Pleasant  hanging  over  the  dash-board  stroking 
Captain,  who  was  tossing  his  feed-bag  up  to  get  at 
his  oats. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  remember  me,  sir  ?"  she  said. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  he  confessed,  smiling.  "  An 
old  man's  memory  isn't  good  for  much,  you  know." 

She  tried  to  smile  too,  but  her  face  felt  stiff. 

"  You  married  us,  sir  ;  my  name  is  Day.  Peter 
Day  is  my  husband." 

Dr.  Lavendar  reflected.  "  Day  ?  The  name  is  fa 
miliar,  but  I  don't  recall —  Let  me  see ;  when  was 
it?" 

"It's  twelve  years  ago  next  month,  sir,"  Elizabeth 
said,  and  added  that  she  had  come  from  Grafton,  and, 
with  a  little  pride  in  her  voice,  that  her  husband  was 
well  known  in  Upper  Chester.  "  Why  you  must 
have  heard  of  Peter  Day  !"  she  said. 

But  Dr.  Lavendar  did  not  commit  himself.  He 
hoped  Mr.  Day  was  well  ?  And  was  that  little  girl 
in  the  buggy  hers  ?  Had  she  other  children  ?  And 
all  the  while  he  looked  at  her  with  his  kind,  shrewd 
old  eyes,  that  were  always  beaming  with  his  good 
opinion  of  his  fellow-men — an  opinion  that  grew  out 
of  his  belief  that  the  children  of  his  Father  could 
not  be  so  very  bad,  after  all ! 

"  I  came  to  see  you,"  Elizabeth  began,  in  a  waver 
ing  voice,  "because — because  I  thought  you  would 
give  me  some  advice." 

"  I  find  it's  easier  for  me  to  give  advice  than  for 
people  to  take  it,"  he  answered,  good-humoredly  ; 
but  now  she  did  not  even  try  to  smile. 

78 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

"  I'm  in  great  trouble,  sir  ;  I — I  thought  you  were 
the  only  person  who  could  help  me.  I've  thought  of 
coming  to  see  you  for  the  last  year." 

"Have  you  had  any  dinner?"  demanded  Dr.  Lav- 
endar,  looking  at  her  over  his  spectacles. 

"  No  ;  I  don't  want  any,  sir.     I  only  want — " 

"You  want  food,"  he  declared,  nodding  his  head  ; 
and  called  Mary,  and  bade  her  bring  in  dinner.  "  Yes, 
you  must  have  some  food  ;  the  advice  of  one  empty 
stomach  to  another  isn't  to  be  trusted.  Come  !  you'll 
feel  better  for  a  cup  of  tea."  Then  he  stopped,  and 
put  his  veined  old  hand  on  her  arm  :  "  You  haven't 
the  worst  trouble  in  the  world,"  he  said  ;  "  be  sure  of 
that." 

Afterwards  she  wondered  what  he  meant.  What 
trouble  could  be  worse  than  hers  ?  But  he  said  no 
more  about  trouble.  He  called  Pleasant,  and  he 
made  his  two  visitors  sit  down  with  him  ;  he  talked 
about  his  bee-hives,  and  promised  to  show  Pleasant 
his  precious  stones,  and  let  her  give  his  shaggy  little 
dog  Danny  a  crust  of  bread.  Then  he  asked  her 
whom  she  was  named  after. 

"Why,  after  mother!"  said  Pleasant,  astonished 
that  he  did  not  know.  "  Mother's  front  name  is 
Elizabeth,  but  father  says  he  named  me  Pleasant  be 
cause  mother's  eyes  were  pleasant,  and  her  voice 
was,  and  her  face  was,  and  her — " 

"  Pleasant,  you  must  not  talk  so  much,"  Elizabeth 
protested,  much  mortified.  "  My  husband  is  such  a 
kind  man,  sir,  he  says  things  like  that,"  she  ex 
plained. 

But  Pleasant,  excited  by  the  strangeness  of  the  oc 
casion,  could  not  be  restrained  ;  she  was  bubbling 
over  with  information — Captain,  and  her  two  broth- 

79 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

ers,  and  mother's  garden,  and  father's  dog  Jim,  that 
had  a  grave  in  the  orchard,  and  a  really  marble 
tombstone  that  said,  "Jim — a  good  friend."  "He 
died  before  I  was  born,  so  I  don't  remember  him  very 
well,"  she  said  ;  but  father  had  given  mother  a  new 
dog,  named  Fanny  ;  and  he  had  given  her,  Pleasant, 
a  duck,  for  her  own,  which  hatched  chickens.  "  And 
their  own  mother  can't  make  'em  swim  !"  Pleasant 
informed  her  hearer,  excitedly.  "  Father  said  I 
mustn't  try  and  teach  'em  (though  I  would  just  as 
leave),  because  it  would  worry  mother.  Would  it 
worry  you,  mother  ?" 

"  Pleasant,  dear,  I  think  you  had  better  run  out 
and  sit  in  the  buggy  now — " 

"  For  fear  Captain  will  run  away  ?"  suggested 
Pleasant,  eagerly. 

"  She  talks  a  great  deal,  sir,"  Elizabeth  apologized. 
"  She's  our  only  little  girl,  and  I'm  afraid  we  spoil 
her." 

Perhaps  Dr.  Lavendar  had  gained  what  he  wanted 
from  the  child  ;  he  made  no  protest  at  her  dismissal, 
and  she  went  frolicking  out  to  climb  up  into  the 
buggy  and  sit  in  the  sun,  chattering  to  Captain,  and 
weaving  three  long  larch  twigs  together  to  make  a 
wreath. 

Mrs.  Day  and  the  minister  went  back  into  the 
study.  Her  heart  was  beginning  to  beat  heavily. 
She  sat  down  where  she  could  look  through  the  open 
window  and  see  Pleasant,  and  the  light  fell  on  her 
pretty,  worn  face.  She  was  rolling  up  the  corner  of 
her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  then  spreading  it  out 
on  her  knee  and  smoothing  it  with  shaking  ringers. 
She  did  not  once  raise  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

u  It's  this  way,  sir  :  I  wanted  to  ask  you — I  thought 
SQ 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

I'd  come  and  ask  you,  because  you  married  us,  and 
you  are  a  stranger  to  us  (and  you  are  a  minister) — 
oh,  I  thought  I'd  ask  you  what — I  must  do." 

Dr.  Lavendar  was  silent. 

"There's  something  I've  got  on  my  mind.  It's 
just  killing  me.  It's  something  my  husband  don't 
know.  If  he  wasn't  just  the  best  husband  in  the 
world,  it  wouldn't  kill  me  the  way  it  does.  But  there 
never  was  anybody  as  good  as  Peter — no,  not  even 
a  minister  is  any  better  than  him.  We've  been  mar 
ried  twelve  years,  and  I  ought  to  know.  Well,  it 
ain't  only  that  he's  just  the  kindest  man  in  the  world 
— it's  his  being  so  good.  He  isn't  like  other  men. 
He  don't  have  the  kind  of  thoughts  they  do.  He 
don't  understand  some  things — not  any  more  than 
Pleasant  does.  Oh,  Peter  is  so  good — if  he  only  wasn't 
so  good  !" 

She  was  red  and  then  white  ;  she  held  her  shaking 
lip  between  her  teeth,  and  looked  out  at  Pleasant. 

"  It  seemed  as  if  you  could  help  me  if  I  told  you  ; 
and  yet  now  it  seems  as  if  there  wasn't  any  help  any 
where." 

"  There  is  help,  my  friend." 

She  seemed  to  grasp  at  his  words. 

"  Oh,  sir,  if  you'll  tell  me  what  to  do—  Well,  it's 
this  :  you  see,  you  married  Peter  and  me  suddenly  ; 
he  didn't  really  know  anything  about  me  ;  he  fell  in 
love  with  me,  seeing  me  in  a  play.  Well,  before  I 
met  Peter — that's  what  I  want  to  tell  you — " 

"  Do  not  tell  me." 

"  Don't  tell  you  ?"  She  looked  at  him  in  a  bewil 
dering  way. 

"Is  there  any  reparation  to  make?  Is  there  any 
thing  to  be  set  right  ?" 

81 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  a  sob  ;  "  oh  no  !  nothing  can 
make  it  right." 

"  Then  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  know,  to  ad 
vise  you.  Let  us  say,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that 
it's  the  worst  thing  that  could  be.  Now,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Day,  the  worst  thing  that  could  be  differs  for 
every  one  of  us.  It  might  be  murder  for  one  person  ; 
it  might  be  a  lie  for  another  person  ;  it  might  be  the 
preaching  of  the  gospel  for  somebody  else.  But  say 
it's  your  worst.  Do  you  doubt  your  husband's  for 
giveness  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  he'd  even  call  it  forgiveness,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause,  twisting  and  untwisting  the 
corner  of  her  handkerchief  with  trembling  fingers. 
"Peter  just — loves  me;  that's  all.  But  it  would — 
oh,  it  would  hurt  Peter  so  !" 

"  You  have  a  good  husband,  I  am  sure  of  that,"  he 
said,  quietly.  "  And  your  question,  as  I  understand 
it,  is,  shall  you  tell  him  some  grievous  fault,  commit^ 
ted  before  you  knew  him  ?  I  can  say  at  once  " — Eliza 
beth  looked  ghastly — "  that  you  ought  to  have  told 
him  before  you  married  him." 

"  So  I  ought  to  tell  him  now  ?"  she  said,  in  a  whis 
per. 

"  Do  you  want  to  tell  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  sometimes  it  seems  as  if  I  would  die  if  I 
didn't,"  she  said.  "  It  would  be  such  a  relief.  I  think, 
if  he  knew  it,  I  could  forget  it.  I  lie  awake  nights, 
thinking  and  thinking  and  thinking  how  I  can  tell 
him,  till  my  mind's  sore,  it  seems  to  me.  I  think  to 
myself  that  I'll  tell  him  as  soon  as  he  wakes  up." 
She  stopped,  and  swallowed  once  or  twice,  and 
pressed  her  lips  together  as  though  to  force  back 
tears.  "  And  then,  again,  I  feel  as  though  I  would 

82 


GOOD    FOR    THE    SOUL 

die  if  I  told  him.  Why,  Peter  thinks  I  am  about 
perfect,  I  believe.  It  sounds  foolish  to  say  that,  but 
it's  true,  sir.  It  would  be  like — like  I  don't  know 
what — like  stabbing  him.  I  don't  mean  he'd  be  un 
kind  to  me,  or  anything  like  that.  It  isn't  that  that 
scares  me.  But  it  would  be  like  putting  a  knife  into 
him.  But  perhaps  that's  part  of  my  punishment," 
she  ended,  wretchedly. 

"  Mother,"  Pleasant  called  from  the  garden  path, 
"may  I  go  and  see  the  minister's  bees  ?" 

Dr.  Lavendar  went  to  the  window  and  told  her 
cheerfully  that  she  might.  "  But  you  must  not  touch 
the  hives,  remember,"  he  cautioned  her. 

Then  he  came  and  sat  down  again  at  his  table. 
He  took  off  his  spectacles  and  put  them  into  a  little 
shabby  leather  case  ;  then  he  passed  his  hand  over 
his  eyes  once  or  twice. 

"  '  Part  of  your  punishment.'  You  would  not  wish 
to  escape  any  part  of  it,  of  course  ?  There  is  a  great 
satisfaction  in  punishment." 

A  quick  understanding  came  into  her  face.  "  I 
know  what  you  mean.  I've  thought  sometimes  I'd 
like  to  be  a  Catholic  and  have  penances  ;  I  could  beat 
myself  to  death,  and  call  it  happiness  !"  she  ended, 
passionately. 

u  Yes  ;  you  must  not  shirk  your  punishment,"  he 
said,  slowly.  "  But  there's  one  thing  we  must  find 
out  :  does  your  husband  deserve  any  punishment  ?" 

"  Peter  !"  she  cried.  "  Why,  he  never  did  anything 
wrong  in  his  life  !" 

"  Then  have  you  any  right  to  make  him  share 
your  punishment  ?  You  say  that  if  he  knew  this  old 
sin  of  yours,  you  could  forget  it  ;  but  would  he  for 
get  it?  You  would  pay  a  great  price  for  forgetful- 

83 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

ness,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  brought  him  into  the 
shadow  in  which  you  walk.  Have  you  ever  thought 
you  might  be  selfish  in  not  being  willing  to  bear  this 
weight  alone  ?" 

"  What  r  she  said,  breathlessly—"  not  tell  him  ?" 

"  Listen,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  stern  dignity ;  he 
was  the  priest,  instead  of  the  kindly  old  man  :  "  you 
have  sinned  long  ago.  I  don't  know  how — I  don't 
want  to  know.  But  it  is  passed,  and  there  is  no 
reparation  to  make.  You  have  sinned,  and  suffered 
for  your  sin  ;  you  have  asked  your  Heavenly  Father 
to  forgive  you,  and  He  has  forgiven  you.  But  still 
you  suffer.  Woman,  be  thankful  that  you  can  suffer; 
the  worst  trouble  in  the  world  is  the  trouble  that 
does  not  know  God,  and  so  does  not  suffer.  With 
out  such  knowledge  there  is  no  suffering.  The  sense 
of  sin  in  the  human  soul  is  the  apprehension  of  Al 
mighty  God.  Your  salvation  has  drawn  nigh  unto 
you  !  Now  take  your  suffering  ;  bear  it,  sanctify  it, 
lift  it  up  ;  let  it  bring  you  nearer  to  your  Saviour. 
But  do  not,  do  not,  put  it  on  shoulders  where  it  does 
not  belong.  Do  not  stab  your  husband's  heart  by 
weakly,  selfishly — selfishly,  mind  you  ! — telling  him 
of  a  past  with  which  it  is  too  late  now  for  him  to 
concern  himself." 

She  drew  a  long  breath.  "  But  you  don't  know 
what  it  was.  If  you  knew— 

"  It  does  not  matter  what  the  sin  was.  All  that 
matters  is,  what  your  love  is." 

"  But  I  am  afraid — oh,  I  am  afraid  that  in  my 
heart  I  don't  want  to  tell  him.  Oh,  I  may  be  de 
ceiving  myself  if  I  call  it  a  duty  not  to  tell  him  !" 

"  No,  you  are  not  deceiving  yourself.  You  don't 
want  to  tell  him  because  it  is  your  instinct  to  spare 

84 


GOOD    FOR   THE    SOUL 

him.  Perhaps,  too,  you  have  the  instinct  to  spare 
yourself,  in  his  eyes.  But  silence  does  not  really 
spare  you  —  don't  you  know  that?  It  only  spares 
him  !  Silence  is  agony  to  you  sometimes.  Well, 
then,  bear  the  agony  for  his  sake.  Don't  you  love 
him  enough  for  that  ?  You  talk  about  penance — my 
friend,  such  silence  will  be  worse  than  any  penance 
of  the  Romish  Church  !" 

She  clung  to  his  hands,  crying  now  unrestrainedly. 
"And  I  am  not  to  keep  thinking,  '  Shall  I  tell  Peter?' 
I'm  not  to  keep  thinking  I'm  deceiving  him  ?" 

"  My  child,  you  are  not  deceiving  him.  He  thinks 
you  are  a  good  woman :  you  are.  Look  back  over 
these  years  and  see  what  wonderful  things  the  Lord 
hath  wrought  in  you.  Go  down  on  your  knees  and 
thank  Him  for  it.  Don't  deny  it ;  don't  be  afraid  to 
own  it  to  yourself — that  would  be  ingratitude  to 
your  Father  in  heaven.  Instead,  thank  Him  that  you 
are  good  /  And  now  listen  :  I  charge  you  bear  the 
burden  of  silence,  because  you  love  your  husband, 
and  he  is  good." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  him,  rapt,  absorbed.  "  I  am 
not  to  be  afraid  that  it  is  for  my  own  wicked  fear 
that  I  am  not  telling  him  ?  No,  it  isn't  that,  it  isn't 
that !  I  know  it  isn't.  For  his  sake — for  his  sake — " 

"  Yes,  for  his  sake." 

But  he  looked  at  her  pityingly.  Would  this  com 
fort  of  deliberately  chosen  pain  be  temporary? 
"  Try,"  he  said,  "  and  think  that  you  stand  between 
him  and  pain  ;  take  all  the  misery  yourself ;  be  glad 
to  take  it.  Don't  let  it  reach  him." 

"  If  I  think  of  it  that  way,"  she  said,  breathlessly. 
"  I— I  can  love  it  !" 

"Think  of  it  that  way  always." 
85 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

He  made  her  sit  down  again,  and  went  out  to  find 
Pleasant,  leaving  her  with  the  peace  of  one  solemnly 
elate  at  the  recognition  of  the  cross  on  which  she 
must  agonize  for  the  happiness  of  some  other  soul. 

"  Suppose,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  watching  the  buggy 
pulling  up  the  hill — "  suppose  I  hadn't  found  her  a 
good  woman,  and  a  good  wife,  and  a  good  mother — 
should  I  have  told  her  to  hold  her  tongue?  Well, 
I'm  thankful  it  wasn't  that  kind  of  a  question  !  Lord, 
I'm  glad  Thou  hast  all  us  puzzled  people  in  Thy  wise 
keeping.  Come,  Danny,  let's  go  and  see  the  bees." 


MISS    MARIA 


MISS    MARIA 


Miss  MARIA  WELWOOD'S  house  was  on  Locust 
Street — the  street  that  climbs  the  hill,  and  melts  into 
a  country  road,  and  then  joins  the  turnpike  over 
which  the  stage  used  to  come  every  day  from  Mer 
cer.  It  was  such  a  house  as  one  sees  so  often  in 
Pennsylvania  and  Maryland  —  stone  and  brick  — 
mostly  stone,  so  that  the  bricks  seemed  to  be  built 
in  in  patches,  to  help  out.  It  stood  back  from  the 
street,  behind  a  low  brick  wall  that  was  crumbling 
here  and  there  where  the  plaster  had  fallen  out;  but 
the  vines  heaped  on  the  coping  and  trailing  down 
almost  to  the  flag -stones  of  the  foot-path  outside 
hid  the  marks  of  years  and  weather,  so  it  never 
seemed  worth  while  to  repair  it.  In  the  spring  these 
flag-stones  were  white  with  falling  blossoms  of  the 
plum-trees  just  inside,  and  petals  from  the  Pirus 
japonica  drifted  over  and  lay  among  them  like  little 
crimson  shells  ;  later  in  the  season  Persian  lilacs 
waved  their  delicate  purple  plumes  over  the  head 
of  the  passer-by,  who  could  see,  for  the  wall  was 
low,  a  pleasant  old  garden  at  one  side  of  the  house. 
To  be  sure,  it  held  nothing  more  choice  than  old- 
fashioned  perennials,  that  showed  their  friendly  faces 
7  89 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

year  after  year  —  peonies,  and  yellow  iris,  and  the 
powdery  pink  of  queen -of -the -meadow  —  and  be 
tween  them  what  annuals  might  sow  themselves, 
with  here  and  there  a  low  bush  of  old-man,  or  musk, 
or  clove-pink.  The  house  itself  was  low  and  ram 
bling,  and  much  bigger  than  Miss  Welwood  needed 
— her  family  being  herself  and  a  cousin,  Rose  Knight. 
A  nephew,  Charles  Welwood,  lived  with  her  until  he 
was  twenty -four,  and,  for  that  matter,  considering 
the  number  of  his  visits,  continued  to  live  with  her, 
now  that  he  was  thirty.  But  the  nominal  household 
was  herself  and  Rose  ;  a  "  good  girl,"  Old  Chester 
called  Rose,  sensible,  and  modest,  as  a  girl  should 
be,  and  not  too  pretty,  for  that  inclines  to  vanity. 
As  for  Miss  Welwood,  she  had  certainly  been  pretty 
when  she  was  young  ;  and  now  that  she  was  fifty 
she  was  like  some  little  ruddy  winter  apple  ;  there 
was  the  touch  of  frost  on  her  brown  hair,  but  her 
cheek  had  a  fresh  color,  and  her  eyes  were  bright 
and  smiling.  She  was  little,  and  had  a  pretty  figure, 
which  she  held  very  erect.  "  Because,"  she  used  to 
explain,  "  when  I  went  to  Miss  Brace's  academy,  my 
dear,  I  was  obliged  to  carry  atlases  on  my  head  to 
make  me  stand  straight."  Miss  Maria  would  have 
liked  to  put  atlases  on  Rose's  head  ;  but,  alas  !  Rose 
did  not  agree  with  her ;  and  there  it  ended,  for  Miss 
Maria  was  one  of  those  people  who  always  want 
other  people  to  do  what  they  want  to  do.  This  char 
acteristic  does  not  belong  to  the  reformer,  but  it  is 
agreeable  to  live  with.  "Dear  Maria  Welwood,"  Old 
Chester  called  her — except  Mrs.  Barkley,  who  called 
her,  generally,  "a  perfect  fool."  Now  Mrs.  Barkley 
loved  Miss  Welwood,  that  was  why  she  called  her  a 
fool ;  and,  besides,  she  limited  this  opinion  to  Miss 

90 


MISS    MARIA 

Maria's  way  of  allowing  herself  to  be  imposed  upon. 
When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  there  is  nothing 
which  makes  us  so  angry  at  the  people  we  love  as 
their  way  of  letting  themselves  be  imposed  upon. 

Charles  Welwood  and  his  little  income  of  about 
$300  a  year  had  come  to  Miss  Maria  as  the  legacy 
of  a  dying  brother,  and  for  twenty-three  years  she 
had  devoted  herself  and  her  pocket-book  to  him. 
When  Charles  was  nearly  sixteen,  Rose,  the  orphan 
daughter  of  a  far-away  cousin,  was  also  left,  as  it 
were,  on  her  door-step — probably  on  the  principle 
of  to  him  that  hath  shall  be  given.  "And  if  you 
don't  call  that  an  imposition  !"  Mrs.  Barkley  said. 
"  She's  got  those  two  children  on  her  hands,  and  it 
will  interfere  with  her  chances  of  marrying — you  see 
if  it  doesn't  !" 

Perhaps  it  did ;  certainly  Miss  Maria  had  not  mar 
ried.  There  had  been  a  time,  when  she  was  about 
twenty-eight,  and  Mr.  Ezra  Barkley,  Mrs.  Barkley's 
brother-in-law,  came  to  live  in  Old  Chester,  that  she 
may  have  had  hopes ;  but  nothing  came  of  them. 
Miss  Maria  began  by  admiring  Mr.  Ezra  because  of 
his  learning  ;  and  then  his  kindness  to  everything 
and  everybody  went  to  her  own  kind  heart.  But, 
to  tell  the  truth,  except  for  that  kindness,  which 
made  him  excessively  polite  to  her  as  well  as  to 
everybody  else,  Mr.  Ezra  did  not  notice  Miss  Maria 
very  much.  She  used  to  look  at  the  back  of  his 
head  in  church,  and  listen,  awe-struck,  to  his  con 
versation  when  she  came  to  tea  with  Mrs.  Barkley ; 
and  she  was  apt  to  take  her  afternoon  walk — Charles 
clinging  to  her  hand  —  down  the  street  by  which 
Mr.  Ezra  returned  from  his  office.  But  though  Mr. 
Barkley  offered  her  a  hymn-book  once  or  twice,  and 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

bowed  with  great  friendliness  whenever  they  met, 
and  politely  saw  her  home,  with  a  lantern,  when  she 
spent  the  evening  with  his  sister-in-law,  she  could 
not  feel  that  there  was  anything  significant  in  his 
attentions.  He  offered  the  same  civilities,  with  the 
same  gentility  of  manner,  to  every  lady  in  Old  Ches 
ter.  So  Miss  Maria  hid  her  little  fluttering  tender 
ness  in  her  own  heart,  where  it  lay,  like  a  fly  in  am 
ber,  while  the  placid  years  came  and  went.  But  the 
memory  of  the  buried  hope  was  like  some  faint  soft 
fragrance  in  her  life.  She  never  forgot  it. 

As  for  her  two  young  people,  when  they  arrived 
at  those  years  of  indiscretion  of  which  matrimony 
is  often  the  outward  and  visible  sign,  propinquity 
suggested  that  they  might  marry  ;  but  for  once  it 
would  appear  youth  was  prudent.  Neither  display 
ed  any  tender  symptoms. 

Charles  was  absorbed  in  making  water  -  color 
sketches,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  one  day  be  an 
artist,  and  had  no  time,  he  had  been  heard  to  say, 
contemptuously,  for  sentimentality.  As  for  Rose, 
she  had  never  "taken  to  Charles,"  as  Miss  Maria 
used  to  express  it,  sadly ;  besides,  all  such  possibili 
ties  ended  when  Charles,  at  twenty -four,  still  de 
pendent  on  his  aunt,  save  for  his  $300,  married,  sud 
denly,  a  nice,  inefficient  sickly  girl,  without  a  cent, 
who  promptly  presented  him  with  twins. 

"  And  who's  going  to  support  'em  ?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Barkley.  "  I  declare — twins!" 

"  But  you  can't  blame  dear  Charles  for  that,"  Miss 
Maria  protested. 

"  Not  blame  Charles  ?  Well,  I'd  like  to  know 
who — "  Mrs.  Barkley  began ;  but  ended  by  telling 

92 


AND    WHO'S    GOING   TO    SUPPORT    'EM?'    DEMANDED    MRS.   BARKLEY  " 


MISS    MARIA 

Miss  Maria  again  that  she  was  a  perfect  fool  about 
that  boy.  "You've  always  spoiled  him,  and  you 
always  will  !" 

Miss  Welwood  had  spoiled  Charles,  according  to 
Old  Chester  rules  ;  and  yet,  he  really  was  the  one 
child  to  whom  the  "spare-the-rod"  precept  did  not 
apply — he  was  naturally  good.  Unnaturally  good 
might  be  a  better  term.  If  he  had  died  young  (as 
Miss  Maria  always  feared  he  would)  he  might  have 
had  a  memoir  written  about  him,  which  would  have 
been  in  all  the  Sunday-school  libraries  ;  for  in  those 
days  the  anaemic  child  was  a  great  part  of  spiritual 
literature.  He  had  a  sort  of  angelic  beauty  when 
he  was  five  or  six,  with  his  pink  cheeks,  his  large 
blue  eyes,  and  his  yellow  hair  that  every  afternoon 
was  curled  up  into  a  long,  sleek  roll  called  a  "roach," 
and  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon  ;  he  looked  "good,"  and 
he  was  fond  of  hymns,  and  used  to  say  things  about 
heaven  that  brought  tears  to  your  eyes.  Dr.  Laven- 
dar  once  compared  him  to  little  Samuel,  and  said 
he  was  a  "  godly  child."  Afterwards,  Dr.  Lavendar 
may  have  apologized  to  Samuel;  though  Charles 
never  was  a  naughty  boy.  He  never  robbed  birds' 
nests,  or  smoked  behind  the  barn,  or  played  marbles 
on  Sunday.  Perhaps  that  was  why  Dr.  Lavendar  was 
apologetic.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  he  kept  on  being 
good  in  spite  of  prophecies  that  a  child  who  had 
never  been  tied  to  a  bedpost,  or  sent  supperless  to 
bed,  must  turn  out  badly.  He  was  a  "  good  young 
man,"  too  ;  and  by-and-by  he  was  a  good  husband, 
and  a  better — or  at  least  a  more  extensive — father 
every  year  ;  for  when  he  was  thirty,  he  and  his  poor 
foolish  wife  had  themselves  and  five  children  to 
look  after.  The  way  in  which  Charles  looked  after 

93 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

them  was  to  bring  them,  whenever  things  were  go 
ing  badly  with  him,  to  visit  Miss  Maria.  But  never 
mind  that :  he  certainly  did  do  everything  a  mortal 
husband  could  do  for  his  sickly  Edith,  and  he  loved 
each  of  the  five  babies  dearly,  and  was  ready  and 
willing  to  love  five  more,  if  the  Lord  sent  them  to 
him — for  Charles  was  a  religious  man,  and  believed 
that  the  Lord  was  responsible  for  bringing  into  the 
world  all  these  delicate  little  children,  whose  father 
could  not  support  them.  He  had  also  a  sincere 
affection  for  his  aunt,  and  meant  it  in  all  simplicity 
when  he  told  her  that  it  was  very  sweet  to  him  to 
take  favors  from  her  hands. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  him,"  demanded  Mrs.  Bark- 
ley,  when  Miss  Maria,  touched  and  beaming,  repeated 
this  to  her — "  why  don't  you  tell  Charles  Welwood 
that  it  would  be  very  sweet  to  you  to  take  favors 
from  his  hands  ?" 

The  color  came  into  Miss  Welwood's  face,  but  she 
only  said,  mildly,"  You  never  did  appreciate  Charles." 

"  Oh,  I  appreciate  him,"  Mrs.  Barkley  said,  grimly. 
Mrs.  Barkley  sat  straight  up  in  her  chair  darning 
stockings ;  she  was  a  little  woman,  with  a  thin,  mel 
ancholy  face,  and  a  very  high  crown  to  her  head. 
Her  hair,  which  was  still  brown,  was  parted  in  the 
middle,  or  a  little  to  one  side  of  the  middle,  and 
brought  down  over  her  cheeks  in  loops  and  then 
twisted  up  behind  fier  ears.  She  had  very  bushy 
eyebrows,  which  twitched  when  she  talked  in  a  way 
that,  being  coupled  with  a  deep  and  masculine  voice, 
inspired  her  listener  with  a  sort  of  alarmed  respect. 
"  Now,  Maria,"  she  went  on,  "  this  is  the  sixth  time 
he  has  come  to  stay  with  you  since  he  was  married ; 
and  those  children — " 

94 


MISS    MARIA 

"  Bless  their  little  hearts,"  said  Miss  Maria,  "they 
are  such  pretty  children  !" 

"  They're  well  enough.  I  only  hope  you  won't 
spoil  them  as  you  did  their  father." 

"  Well,  he  is  very  unselfish,  Matty,  anyhow,"  Miss 
Maria  defended  him,  "  and  amiable  ;  never  a  word 
of  complaint !  There  are  not  many  men  who  would 
not  rebel  at  having  a  sick  wife  on  their  hands." 

"  Maybe  their  aunts  might  rebel,"  Mrs.  Barkley 
said. 

"  I  think  it  was  noble  in  Charles  to  marry  Edith 
to  take  care  of  her,"  cried  Miss  Welwood. 

"Then  why  doesn't  he  take  care  of  her?  And 
look  at  all  those  children  ;  he  is  perfectly  delighted 
with  this  last  one  !" 

"Well,  I  should  hope  so  !"  said  Miss  Maria,  with 
spirit.  "  Matty,  how  can  you  pretend  to  be  so  heart 
less  ?  Would  you  have  a  parent  indifferent  to  his 
offspring?" 

"  Indifferent  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Barkley,  with  a  snort. 
"What  do  you  call  bringing  five  children  into  the 
world,  just  to  starve  'em  ?  I  call  it  something  worse 
than  indifference." 

Miss  Welwood  held  up  her  hands,  horrified. 

"  My  dear  Matty,  I  can't  think  that  is  quite  del 
icate." 

"  If  they  were  kittens,  he  could  drown  'em.  As  it 
is,  he  just  gives  them  to  you." 

"  My  dear  Matty  !"  said  poor  Miss  Welwood  again. 
She  said  to  herself  that  some  time  she  would  cer 
tainly  lose  her  temper  with  Matilda  Barkley. 

"There's  no  use  getting  into  a  passion,  Maria. 
I'm  only  speaking  the  truth.  You  know  I  am  al 
ways  perfectly  open  with  you.  You  seem  to  like 

95 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

being  imposed  upon  ;  I  suppose  that's  why  you  are 
supporting  Charles's  family — though  my  opinion  is 
that  a  man  hasn't  any  business  to  have  a  family  if  he 
can't  support  it.  He  is  worse  than  an  infidel — " 

"  Matty—" 

"That's  the  Bible.  I  suppose  I  may  quote  the 
Scriptures  ?" 

Miss  Welwood  sighed.  Mrs.  Barkley  pushed  her 
spectacles  up  on  the  bridge  of  her  nose,  and  said, 
"  How's  Rose  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Miss  Maria,  "she's  very  well,  the 
dear  child  !" 

After  that  there  was  peace,  for  Mrs.  Barkley  liked 
Rose  as  much  as  she  disliked  Charles,  and  she  lis 
tened  with  a  grim  chuckle  when  Miss  Maria  told  her 
that  Rose  had  done  this  or  that — put  up  ten  quarts 
of  strawberries,  or  made  over  her  best  dress  so  that 
it  would  do  for  another  season.  "  She  won't  let  me 
buy  her  a  new  one,"  said  Miss  Maria,  beaming  ; 
"  such  an  obstinate  child  !" 

"  Pity  Charles  hasn't  a  little  of  her  obstinacy," 
Mrs.  Barkley  retorted.  At  which  the  color  came 
into  Miss  Maria's  face;  but  she  only  said  it  was  time 
for  her  to  go  home. 

Afterwards  she  felt  she  had  been  severe  with  Mat 
ty  ;  and  when  she  said  her  prayers  that  night,  she 
asked  for  grace  to  control  her  temper. 


II 

Mr.  Ezra  Barkley  was  a  fat,  placid  man,  rather 
bald,  with  that  look  of  aged  youth  which  is  so  con 
fusing.  He  might  have  been  fifty  or  thirty  with 

96 


MISS    MARIA 

equal  probability ;  in  point  of  fact,  he  was  nearly 
fifty.  He  was  a  good  deal  of  a  dandy  ;  and  though 
not  exactly  wordly,  was  supposed  to  have  rationalis 
tic  tendencies — believing,  it  was  said,  that  the  world 
had  been  created  in  six  periods  of  time  instead  of  six 
days.  Thus  the  awful  interest  of  the  freethinker 
was  attached  to  him,  and  it  was  known  that  Mrs. 
Barkley  made  his  conversion  a  subject  of  special 
prayer. 

Perhaps  Miss  Welwood  prayed  for  him  too  ;  but 
she  never  said  so. 

Mr.  Barkley's  deplorable  rationalism  was  the  out 
come,  his  sister-in-law  thought,  of  his  learning,  and 
she  was  apt  to  remind  him,  in  a  sad  bass,  that  the 
wisdom  of  men  was  foolishness  with  their  Creator. 
His  wisdom,  it  must  be  admitted,  was  almost  entire 
ly  confined  to  statistics  ;  but  that  did  not  shake  Old 
Chester's  belief  that  he  was  a  learned  man.  Beside 
his  knowledge,  he  was  further  distinguished  by  his 
genius  for  listening.  Now  there  are  few  things  that 
are  more  endearing  than  the  grace  of  listening  with 
attention  ;  indeed,  it  is  more  than  endearing,  it  is 
impressive — for  no  one  knows  what  wisdom  lies  con 
cealed  in  silence  ! 

As  for  Ezra  Barkley,  he  listened  to  everybody,  and 
never  interrupted  ;  when  he  did  speak,  it  was  gen 
erally  to  give  some  small,  quite  irrelevant  piece  of 
information  of  a  statistical  nature  ;  but  he  expressed 
no  opinions  of  his  own.  This  had  led  his  sister-in- 
law,  in  the  course  of  years,  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
had  no  opinions.  But  that  was  her  mistake. 

"  What  do  you  suppose,"  Mrs.  Barkley  demanded, 
the  evening  of  the  day  that  she  had  been  so  candid 
with  Miss  Maria  —  uwhat  do  you  suppose,  Ezra? 

97 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

That  boy  Charles  has  put  every  cent  of  his  money 
into  some  patent  oil-can  !  I  only  hope  he  won't  in 
duce  Maria  to  put  hers  into  it.  I  know  she's  giving 
him  money  to  live  on  now — he  hasn't  anything  to 
do.  How  different  he  is  from  Rose  !  She  is  so  sen 
sible  and  industrious." 

Mr.  Ezra  Barkley  crossed  his  legs,  as  one  who 
would  assent,  comfortably. 

"  Well,  Maria  said  that  Charles  said  it  troubled 
him  dreadfully  to  be  dependent  on  her  even  for  a 
little  while  ;  and  then,  if  you  please,  she  said  that 
nobody  was  '  more  sensitive  in  such  things  than 
Charles  was.'  I  told  her  I  was  glad  to  hear  it — very 
glad  indeed  to  hear  it !"  said  Mrs.  Barkley,  in  a 
dreadful  bass. 

Ezra  rose  and  went  over  to  a  large  wicker  cage 
which  held  some  of  his  pets  ;  he  opened  the  door  and 
took  out  two  little  green  paroquets,  and  balancing 
one  on  each  forefinger,  he  came  back  to  his  arm 
chair.  He  expressed  no  opinion  concerning  Charles's 
dependence  upon  his  aunt ;  he  seemed  absorbed  in 
scratching  the  head  of  one  of  the  little  parrots,  which 
uttered  small,  shrill  cries  of  approval.  But  he  was 
listening. 

"  And  then  what  do  you  suppose  she  said  ?  She 
said  that  it  was  very  difficult  for  the  artistic  tem 
perament  to  consider  earning  money.  I  just  said, 
'  Maria  Welwood,  the  artistic  temperament  is  an 
other  name  for  dishonesty  !'  (You  know,  Ezra,  I 
make  a  point  of  being  perfectly  open  with  Maria.) 
'There  is  too  much  of  this  "genius"  that  doesn't 
pay  its  debts,  or  lets  its  female  relations  support  it,' 
I  said.  And  just  think  of  all  those  children,  Ezra  !" 

Ezra  shook  his  head  in  melancholy  assent.  "  Are 
98 


MISS    MARIA 

you  aware,"  he  said,  "  that  the  word  lullaby — your 
reference  to  Charles's  family  suggests  the  fact — the 
word  lullaby  is  thought  to  be  derived  from  the  name 
of  Adam's  first  wife — Lili  Abi  ?  She  was  said  to  be 
queen  of  the  succubae  —  devils  who  had  taken  the 
female  form." 

"  I  told  her,"  Mrs.  Barkley  continued,  as  though 
Mr.  Ezra  had  not  spoken,  "  I  just  wished  Charles  had 
half  the  spirit  Rose  has  !" 

Ezra  watched  the  paroquets  climbing  up  his  leg, 
heels  over  head,  so  to  speak,  for  the  little  creatures, 
grasping  at  his  trousers  with  beak  and  claw,  lifted 
themselves  up  and  up  until  they  gained  his  welcom 
ing  hand  and  were  fed  with  small  crumbs  of  sugar. 

"  Rose  is  a  superior  girl,  Ezra,"  Mrs.  Barkley  an 
nounced,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  dares  a'  contradic 
tion.  Mr.  Barkley  scratched  one  of  the  little  green 
heads  too  hard,  and  the  bird  bit  at  him  angrily. 
"  But  she  is  an  expense  to  Maria,"  Mrs.  Barkley 
went  on,  "and  I  wish — I  wish  she  had  a  home  of  her 
own,  Ezra." 

"  She  converses  somewhat  rapidly,"  observed  Mr. 
Ezra  ;  "at  times  I  find  it  difficult  to—" 

"  To  follow  her  ?  Oh,  well,  one  would  get  used  to 
that." 

"  — to  apprehend  her.  Nevertheless,  she  is  a  very 
pleasing  young  lady."  With  this  Mr.  Ezra  Barkley 
put  the  parrots  back  in  their  cage.  Now  Mr.  Bark- 
ley  could  put  two  and  two  together  as  well  as  any 
body  else  :  Rose  was  a  superior  girl ;  he  was  an  un 
married  man.  He  had  listened  to  Mrs.  Barkley  too 
many  years  to  doubt  either  of  these  propositions — or 
the  obvious  deduction  ;  but  he  still  continued  to 
listen,  and  stroke  his  parrots'  heads,  and  look  blind. 

99 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

On  this  particular  evening,  however,  he  was  really 
interested  in  what  his  sister-in-law  said  of  Miss  Wei- 
wood  and  Charles.  The  fact  was,  Ezra  Barkley  knew 
that  Miss  Maria  believed  in  that  oil-can  to  such  an 
extent  that  she  wanted  to  put  every  bit  of  her 
money  into  her  nephew's  hands,  that  he  might  in 
vest  it  for  her  and  they  might  both  grow  rich  to 
gether.  She  had  met  him  only  the  day  before,  and 
had  told  him  of  Charles's  project.  She  was  to  con 
tribute  the  money  to  start  the  enterprise,  she  said, 
and  Charles  was  to  contribute  time,  and  they  were 
to  divide  the  profits.  That  she  was  getting  the  best 
of  the  bargain  she  never  doubted. 

"  Charles  says  he  is  going  to  divide  all  the  profit 
with  me,"  she  said  ;  "  but  of  course  I  sha'n't  allow 
that !  At  least  I'll  leave  it  all  back  again  to  those 
precious  children." 

"  But  suppose  he  does  not  acquire  this,  as  you 
might  say,  fortune  ?"  Mr.  Barkley  inquired.  "  If  you 
will  permit  me  to  say  so,  Miss  Maria,  I  cannot  but 
feel — ah — anxious." 

But  Miss  Welwood's  confidence  could  not  be 
shaken.  "  If  there  was  any  doubt  about  it,  my  dar 
ling  boy  wouldn't  want  me  to  invest  my  money  in 
it,  you  know." 

Mr.  Ezra  said  nothing,  and  Miss  Maria  felt  she  had 
silenced  him  by  her  logic,  but  she  hoped  she  had  not 
hurt  his  feelings.  He  certainly  did  not  look  wound 
ed  ;  he  bowed  politely,  and  asked  her  if  she  had  any 
idea  how  many  eggs  there  were  in  a  shad  roe.  She 
said,  with  immediate  interest,  she  supposed  quite  a 
number — over  two  hundred,  perhaps  ;  and  when  Mr. 
Barkley  gave  what  he  called  the  "  approximate  num 
ber,"  she  threw  up  her  hands  in  the  greatest  aston- 

100 


MISS    MARIA 

ishment,  and  said  :  "  Dear  me  !  You  don't  say  so  ! 
You  have  so  much  information,  Mr.  Ezra." 

Later  in  the  evening  Miss  Maria  repeated  what 
she  had  learned  concerning  shad  roe  to  Rose,  and 
added  that  it  was  very  improving  to  talk  with  Mr. 
Barkley. 

"  I'm  sure  it  must  be,"  Rose  said,  gravely,  "  but  it's 
very  serious  to  think  of  eating  so  many  little  fish  at 
a  time." 

Miss  Welwood  looked  at  her  young  cousin  side- 
wise  ;  it  seemed  to  her  Rose  was  making  fun  of  Mr. 
Barkley. 

"  Well,  there  is  nobody  so  kind  as  Mr.  Ezra,  any 
how,"  she  said,  with  spirit  ;  "  and  I  only  wish  I  knew 
half  as  much  as  he  does  !"  And  then  Miss  Maria  be 
gan  to  talk  about  the  oil-can  and  her  future  wealth 
— ("  for  I  won't  have  Ezra  laughed  at,"  she  said  to 
herself). 

As  for  the  oil-can,  Miss  Welwood  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  put  almost  half  of  her  little  capital  into 
Charles's  hands.  The  fact  was,  her  nephew's  enthu 
siasm  about  the  oil-can  was  as  sincerely  hopeful  as 
though  he  had  been  the  inventor,  instead  of  merely 
the  promoter. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  his  big  visionary  blue  eyes  shining 
with  excitement,  "  there  is  absolutely  no  doubt.  It 
can't  fail.  It  simply  can't.  Why,  just  see  :  the 
country  population  of  the  United  States  is,  well,  say 
so  much  :  now  supposing  there  are  nine  souls  to  a 
family — well,  say  ten — it's  easier  to  divide  by  ten, 
and  it's  better  to  be  on  the  safe  side  ;  though,  of 
course,  there  are  a  great  many  families  where  there 
are  only  five — or  even  two,  like  you  and  Rose.  But 
it's  more  conservative  to  say  ten  souls  to  a  fam- 

101 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

ily  :  you  see  at  once  how  many  families  there 
are  ?" 

"And  every  family  must  have  an  oil-can?"  cried 
Miss  Maria. 

"  Ah  !  but  wait,"  Charles  said.  "  That's  the  coun 
try  population.  Now  the  number  of  villages  in  the 
United  States  where  they  don't  have  gas —  You  see 
what  I  am  trying  to  get  at  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course  !"  his  aunt  said.  "  Why,  here  is 
Old  Chester,  for  instance  ;  I'm  sure  Matty  would 
take  two.  We  must  give  one  to  Dr.  Lavendar, 
Charles  ;  he  mustn't  buy  it." 

Charles,  proceeding  with  his  calculation,  did  not 
stop  to  think  of  the  profit  on  Mrs.  Barkley's  purchase. 
"  We  can  reckon  certainly  on  such  and  such  a  num 
ber  to  be  sold  in  small  villages,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
poor  people  in  cities." 

"  Can't  we  have  some  cheaper  for  the  poor  ?"  Miss 
Maria  asked,  sympathetically. 

But  Charles  would  not  stop  to  answer  questions. 
"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  it's  perfectly  easy  to  figure  the 
profits  !" 

Edith  was  so  excited  that  she  began  to  laugh 
hysterically,  and  Miss  Maria  caught  up  the  youngest 
from  the  floor,  and  cuddled  him,  and  kissed  him,  and 
bade  him  go  to  sleep  : 

"And  when  you  awake, 
You  shall  have  a  cake, 
And  a  coach  and  six  little  horses  !" 

sung  Miss  Maria,  "because  we  are  all  going  to  be  rich, 
you  precious  little  Theodore  !"  And  the  fifth,  being  so 
named  because  he  was, Charles  said,  "a  gift  from  God," 
cooed  and  gurgled,  and  everybody  was  very  happy. 

102 


MISS    MARIA 

Except  Rose.  Rose  had  shown  no  inclination  to 
trust  the  oil-can  ;  not  because  she  had  any  superior 
wisdom,  but  just  because  Charles  advocated  it. 

"  But  never  mind,  my  darling  child,"  Miss  Maria 
said  ;  "  when  my  profit  comes  in — Charles  says  it  will 
be  certainly  ten  times  what  I  invest — I  will  give  half 
of  it  to  you  !" 

"  Oh,  Rose  don't  believe  in  any  of  my  projects," 
Charles  said,  in  a  wounded  voice.  "  Rose  thinks, 
Edith,  that  we  ought  to  stay  in  the  tavern,  instead 
of  visiting  Aunt  Maria." 

"  Oh,  now,  my  dear  Charles,"  protested  poor  Miss 
Welwood,  putting  the  gift  of  God  down  on  the  floor 
— "  my  dear  children,  please — " 

"Well,  Charles,  I  must  say,"  Rose  retorted,  "I 
don't  see  how  you  can  be  under  such  obligations  to 
Cousin  Maria." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Rose,"  sighed  Miss  Welwood, 
"  please—" 

Edith,  as  usual,  began  to  weep.  "  Charlie  always 
paints  a  picture  for  aunty  when  we've  been  making 
her  a  visit,"  she  defended  her  husband. 

"  It  is  very  sweet  to  me  to  owe  everything  to 
aunty,"  Charles  said,  stung  and  helpless.  "  Where 
one  loves,  one  can  accept." 

"  Well,  you  must  love  a  good  deal,"  Rose  flung 
out. 

"  I  do,"  Charles  declared.  "  And  just  let  me  say, 
Rose,  that  it  is  the  little  nature  that  is  afraid  of  an 
obligation.  Aunt  Maria  has  made  me  what  I  am  ;  I 
admit  it — I  am  proud  to  admit  it.  And  when  the 
money  comes  in,  it  shall  all  be  hers." 

"  Oh,  but  Charlie,"  Edith  whimpered,  "  sha'n't  we 
have  a  little  ?" 

103 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

At  which  there  were  tears  and  protests  and  ex 
planations,  and  Rose  went  whirling  out  of  the  room, 
angry  and  ashamed,  her  young  heart  bursting  with 
the  sense  of  her  own  dependence. 


Ill 

It  was  in  February  that  these  dreams  of  affluence 
first  began  to  dazzle  Miss  Maria's  eyes ;  and  they 
grew  more  dazzling  as  the  spring  went  on.  Charles 
had  gone  back  to  Mercer,  so  that  he  might  be  "  on 
the  spot,"  to  look  after  the  family  interests,  and 
Edith  had  been  sent  South  to  escape  the  March 
winds.  As  Charles  had  pointed  out,  the  expense  of 
her  journey  would  be  covered  ten  times  over  when 
the  first  dividend  came  in.  When  Miss  Maria  re 
peated  this  to  Rose,  the  girl  dropped  down  upon  her 
knees  beside  the  little,  trim,  upright  figure,  and 
hugged  her. 

"And  in  the  mean  time  you  pay  her  expenses?" 
she  said. 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said  Miss  Maria, 
affronted. 

"  It  strikes  me  that  it  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with 
it,"  Rose  retorted.  "  Cousin  Maria,  what  should  you 
do  if — if  the  oil-can  exploded  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  is  to  be  very  strong,"  Miss  Welwood  ex 
plained. 

And  then  Rose  explained :  "  I  meant  if  it  failed, 
dear  ?" 

"Oh,  Charles  says  it  can't  fail!"  Miss  Maria  de 
clared,  cheerfully.  "  Charles  says  it's  absolutely 
sure." 

104 


MISS    MARIA 

"But  if  —  if?"  Rose  persisted,  patting  Miss 
Maria's  hand,  and  putting  it  up  against  her  cheek. 

"Nonsense  !"  cried  the  other,  and  then  bade  Rose 
move  back  a  little  from  the  fire.  "  It's  bad  for  your 
complexion  to  scorch  your  cheeks,  my  dear.  When 
I  was  young,  we  were  never  allowed  to  come  nearer 
the  fire  than  the  outside  edge  of  the  hearth-rug." 

"  Is  that  the  reason  your  complexion  is  so  pretty  ?" 
said  Rose. 

And  Miss  Maria  said  "  Nonsense !"  again,  and 
blushed,  and  said  that  once  Mr.  Ezra  Barkley  had 
paid  her  a  compliment  on  her  color.  "  He  was  re 
marking  upon  the  number  of  tons  of  roses  used  every 
year,  and  he  said  something  about  my  cheeks.  Of 
course  he  said  it  in  a  very  polite  and  genteel  way." 

"  Why,  Cousin  Maria  !"  cried  Rose.  "  Well !  When 
is  it  to  be  ?" 

"Fie,  fie!"  protested  Miss  Maria.  "At  Miss 
Brace's,  Rose,  we  were  always  told  that  jests  upon 
the  affections  were  indelicate.  Not  that  you  meant 
it  so,  my  darling,  of  course." 

"  The  question  is,  what  does  Mr.  Ezra  mean  ?"  said 
Rose.  "  I  shall  certainly  ask  him  his  intentions." 

Miss  Welwood  gasped  with  dismay.  "Miss  Brace 
used  to  say  that  any  allusion  to  matters  of  the  heart 
was  'exceedingly  unladylike,'"  she  declared;  but  she 
half  sighed.  "  He's  always  very  kind,  Rose,  but  he 
is  too  superior  for — for  such  things.  I  think  learned 
men  are  apt  to  be." 

It  seemed  as  though  her  fresh  face  fell  into  lines 
of  age,  and  Rose,  looking  at  her,  felt  a  sudden  pang 
of  pity.  "  Let's  talk  about  the  oil-can,"  she  said ; 
and  Miss  Welwood  was  ready  and  eager  for  the  sub 
ject. 

8  105 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Indeed,  as  the  spring  went,  Miss  Welwood  talked 
of  little  else.  Her  confidence  grew  with  the  season  ; 
in  May  she  was  eager  to  give  Charles  still  another 
thousand  dollars  for  the  enterprise,  which  "  needed 
pushing,"  the  profits  being,  Charles  said,  merely  a 
matter  of  proportion. 

"  The  more  you  push,  the  more  you'll  get,"  he  said. 
"  It's  self-evident." 

"  Why,  of  course  /"  said  his  aunt.  "  I  think,  Charles, 
I'll  put  in  two  thousand  instead  of  one  ;  it  seems 
foolish  to  simply  cut  off  future  profits  because  of  a 
little  present  inconvenience." 

"That's  perfectly  true,"  he  told  her,  admiringly, 
"  but  there  are  very  few  women  who  would  have  the 
business  keenness  to  see  it.  Still,  dear,  you  must  be 
your  own  judge.  I  consider  you  quite  as  good  a 
judge  in  business  matters  as  I  am,  and  I  wouldn't 
urge  you  for  the  world." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Rose?"  cried  Miss  Maria. 
"  Charles  says  he  considers  me  as  good  a  judge  in 
business  matters  as  he  is  (of  course  I'm  not)  ;  but 
what  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"  I  think  that  Charles  is  quite  right,"  Rose  said,dryly. 

However,  the  two  thousand  dollars  were  given,  arid 
still  another  two.  By  this  time  more  than  three- 
quarters  of  Miss  Maria's  eggs  were  in  one  basket 
— from  which,  indeed,  no  chickens  had  yet  been 
hatched;  hence  the  "present inconvenience"  became 
very  obvious,  not  only  to  Miss  Maria  and  Rose,  but 
to  Mrs.  Barkley — and  consequently  to  Mr.  Ezra,  who 
played  with  the  paroquets,  and  listened,  and  at  last 
gratified  Mrs.  Barkley  by  nodding  silently  when  she 
observed  that  if  Rose  were  married,  things  would  be 
easier  for  Maria. 

106 


MISS    MARIA 

They  were  sitting  in  the  grape-arbor,  with  a  little 
table  between  them  ;  it  was  just  after  dinner  on 
Sunday,  and,  as  was  Mrs.  Barkley's  habit  when  the 
weather  permitted,  the  coffee  had  been  brought  out 
to  this  shady  place,  and  now  it  was  being  stirred  and 
sipped,  and  the  sermon  discussed.  A  little  later, 
when  the  sun  should  burn  through  the  leaves  and 
look  in  at  the  western  end  of  the  arbor,  Mrs.  -Barkley 
would  grow  drowsy,  and  pick  up  her  religious  paper, 
and  go  off  to  take  a  nap ;  but  just  now  she  was  alert. 
She  had  said  what  she  thought  of  Dr.  Lavendar's 
sermon,  and  added,  significantly,  that  though  he  was 
growing  old  he  was  remarkably  edifying  in  matters 
of  doctrine.  Then  she  said  that  she  declared  it  was 
too  bad,  Maria  Welwood  hadn't  got  a  new  bonnet  yet! 

"  I  don't  know  where  this  is  going  to  end,"  said 
Mrs.  Barkley.  "  Maria  is  really  pinched  for  money. 
Rose  is  a  good,  economical  girl,  but  she  does  eat,  and 
she  has  to  have  clothes."  Mrs.  Barkley's  eyebrows 
twitched,  and  she  looked  at  her  brother-in-law  with 
anxiety. 

Ezra  took  off  his  glasses  and  examined  them  ;  then 
he  rubbed  the  bridge  of  his  nose  thoughtfully.  "  Were 
you  aware,  Matilda,  that  glass  was  discovered  by  the 
accident  of — " 

"  No,  I  wasn't.  Now,  Ezra,  I'm  always  perfectly 
open  with  you,  so  I'm  going  to  give  you  some  ad 
vice.  I  never  shrink  from  giving  advice.  Some  peo 
ple  do.  I  once  heard  Dr.  Lavendar  with  my  own  ears 
say  he  did  not  like  to  advise  people.  He  said  he  al 
ways  '  hoped  they  would  do  the  other  thing  ' — which 
was  very  foolish  in  him,  for  why  shouldn't  he  advise 
the  other  thing,  to  begin  with?  However,  I  only 
wanted  to  say  that  you  are  really  getting  on  in  years 

107 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

yourself ;  and — and  Rose  Knight  is  certainly  a  su 
perior  girl.     A  very  superior  girl,  Ezra  !" 

Ezra  breathed  on  his  glasses  and  polished  them 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  then  held  them  up  to  see 
if  they  were  bright. 

"  She's  twenty-five.  I  call  that  just  the  right  age 
for  a  man  of  fifty,  Ezra  ;  and  she's  a  good,  capable 
girl,  and  she  has  about  as  much  religion  as  you  like. 
(Dear  me,  Ezra — you  know  my  prayer  for  you  in 
that  regard?)" 

Ezra  coughed. 

"  I  mean,  she  isn't  like  Grace  Smith,  running  to 
church  all  the  time,  when  she  ought  to  be  at  home 
looking  after  things." 

"  You  may  be  interested  to  know,"  said  Mr.  Ezra, 
mildly,  "  that  the  scientific  researches  of  Bishop  Co- 
lenso  prove  that  the  children  of  Israel  could  not 
have — " 

"  Ezra  !"  said  Mrs.  Barkley,  with  proper  indigna 
tion,  u  not  in  my  presence,  if  you  please  !  /  avoid 
'profane  and  vain  babblings,  and  oppositions  of  sci 
ence  falsely  so  called!'  (You'll  find  that  somewhere 
in  ist  Timothy,  Ezra ;  I  advise  you  to  look  it  up.) 
But  to  go  back  to  Rose  :  Maria  has  brought  her  up  to 
have  the  greatest  respect  for  you  ;  I've  heard  her 
myself  tell  Rose  that  your  conversation  was  most  im 
proving." 

Mr.  Ezra  was  plainly  gratified,  though  he  pooh- 
poohed  the  compliment.  "I  fear  that  I  can  scarcely 
hope  that  my  conversation  would  be  of  interest  to  so 
bright  a  young  lady  as  Miss  Rose." 

"  Fiddlesticks,"  said  Mrs.  Barkley.  "  Of  course  it  is. 
What  you  said  at  breakfast  to-day  about  chairs  being 
used  in  Egypt  3300  years  before  Christ  would  interest 

108 


MISS    MARIA 

any  young  person  who  is  quick  to  learn,  as  Rose  is. 
No,  Ezra  ;  Rose  is  all  I  could  expect  to  find  in  any 
girl  out  of  our  own  family.  And  if  she  were  married, 
Maria  could  live  with  her — at  least  until  she  gets 
back  that  oil-can  money  that  that  Charles  has  stolen! 
I  call  it  stolen.  I  told  Rose  so  frankly.  I'm  perfectly 
open  with  Rose  about  Charles." 

Mr.  Ezra  recalled,  silently,  the  reply  that  he  had 
heard  Miss  Rose  make  to  this  remark — "As  forgetting 
back  the  money  for  the  oil-can,  I'm  afraid  she  can't!" 
And  then  Rose  had  flung  up  her  head  and  laughed ; 
and  Mr.  Ezra  believed  that  there  was  a  joke  some 
where.  But  just  now  his  heart  was  heavy  at  the 
thought  of  Miss  Maria's  troubles. 

"  Do  you  apprehend,"  he  said,  laboriously,  "  that 
Miss  Welwood's  circumstances  are  really,  as  you 
might  say,  straitened?" 

"  I  know  they  are !"  his  sister-in-law  said,  her  eye 
brows  twitching.  "  Ezra,  she's  sent  away  Jane.  You 
know  Jane's  been  with  them  since — why,  it's  seven 
teen  years  if  it's  a  day  ! — and  Maria  and  Rose  (good, 
capable  girl !)  do  all  the  work.  Maria  looks  worn 
out,"  said  Mrs.  Barkley,  nearly  crying,  "  and  it's  all 
that  Charles  !  Somebody  ought  to  do  something. 
Of  course  we  can't  give  Maria  money  ;  she  wouldn't 
take  anybody  else's  money,  though  she  thinks  it's  all 
right  for  that  boy  Charles  to  take  hers.  But  then 
she  likes  to  be  imposed  upon.  Oh  dear  !  Well,  she 
is  a  perfect  fool.  I've  told  her  so.  Well,  Ezra,  I'm 
going  up-stairs  to  lie  down.  But  just  remember, 
Rose  is  a  superior  girl.  It's  queer  no  man  has  had 
sense  enough  to  take  her.  But  men  haven't  any 
sense  !"  ended  Mrs.  Barkley,  with  a  snort. 

As  for  Ezra,  he  went  and  got  his  cat,  and  settled 
109 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

back  in  his  chair,  rubbing  Pussy's  ears  with  an  ab 
sent  hand,  and  reflecting.  It  was  warm  and  still  in 
the  arbor  ;  a  honeysuckle  swaying  in  some  warm, 
wandering  breath  of  wind  threw  a  lacing  shadow 
over  the  pool  of  sunshine  that,  at  the  western  end, 
began  to  widen  over  the  uneven  flags. 

u  Well,"  said  Ezra  Barkley  to  himself,  "  it  is  cer 
tainly  very  distressing — very  distressing  ;"  and  after 
a  while  he  added  that  it  certainly  would  be  very 
pleasing  to  have  an  agreeable  young  person  in  the 
house.  And  so  Miss  Maria  had  brought  her  up  to 
have  a  great  respect  for  him  ?  The  thought  increased 
his  respect  for  Miss  Maria.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
if  Rose  liked  "  facts,"  he  could  certainly  interest  her. 
He  decided  to  make  researches  in  the  line  of  ladies' 
clothing  ;  he  would  tell  her  when  gloves  were  intro 
duced  into  England  ;  he  would  divert  her  with  the 
height  of  the  head-dress  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
Yes,  it  would  be  very  agreeable  indeed  to  have  a 
bright  young  creature  like  Rose  eager  to  listen  to  his 
facts.  Poor  Miss  Maria  !  she  was  anxious,  no  doubt, 
and  was  worrying  over  money  matters.  "  Ladies 
ought  not  to  have  such  anxieties,"  thought  Mr.  Ezra. 
"Poor  lady!  Well — it  was  very  hard.  Yes;  something 
must  be  done — something  must  be  done."  His  eyes 
narrowed  with  thought,  and  he  sighed  once  or  twice. 
He  scratched  the  cat  under  her  chin,  which  caused 
her  to  shut  her  eyes  and  wave  her  tail  and  purr 
loudly.  The  pool  of  sunshine  widened  to  his  feet  ; 
the  arbor  was  hot  and  still,  and  the  heavy  fragrance 
of  the  tall  white  lilies  crept  like  some  tangible  sweet 
ness  into  the  shadows  under  the  grape  leaves.  Mr. 
Ezra  nodded  a  little  ;  his  hand  sunk  into  the  soft 
warm  fur,  and  he  and  the  kitten  slept  soundly. 

no 


MISS    MARIA 


IV 

The  summer  passed,  and  still  Miss  Maria  did  not 
get  a  new  bonnet.  Indeed,  the  time  of  new  bon 
nets  seemed  postponed  and  postponed.  However, 
four  of  Charles's  children  came  to  pay  her  a  visit,  as, 
in  the  business  anxiety  of  the  last  month,  Charles 
had  felt  unequal  to  the  care  of  them  ;  and  Edith  was 
preparing  for  another  gift  from  God,  and  so  really 
could  not  ("  and  should  not,"  Miss  Maria  said)  have 
the  burden  of  her  entire  household  on  her  shoulders. 
It  was  while  they  were  with  her  that  the  oil-can  ex 
ploded,  to  use  Rose's  metaphor. 

When  their  father's  letter  came  bringing  news  of 
the  catastrophe,  there  came  also  a  little  package 
("  Charles  never  forgets  these  darling  children  !" 
said  Miss  Maria) — a  doll  for  small  Edith,  a  book  for 
one  boy,  a  transparent  slate  for  the  other,  a  rattle 
for  Theodore.  The  distribution  of  these  gifts  de 
layed  the  reading  of  the  letter  with  its  big  engraved 
heading,  "  The  Universal  Oil-Can  Co."  The  children 
had  been  painting  :  it  was  a  rainy  afternoon,  and 
Miss  Maria  had  rummaged  in  the  garret  among  the 
possessions  of  her  youth,  and  brought  down  her  old 
paint-box,  and  the  four  little  people  had  been  very 
happy  over  it.  Dear  me  !  don't  we  all  know  those 
old  paint-boxes  of  our  maiden  aunts — with  cakes  of 
dried  and  flaked  water-colors,  rubbed  down,  some  of 
them,  sidewise,  or  with  holes  worn  through  them  by 
pointed  feminine  brushes — and  the  saucers,  with 
their  cracked  films  of  crimson  lake  or  gamboge  still 
clinging  to  them  ! 

"  I  used  to  paint  when  I  was  a  young  lady,"  Miss 
in 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Maria  said  ;  "  I  studied  the  Berthollet  method  at 
Miss  Brace's.  Dear  me  !  I'm  afraid  I've  forgotten  a 
great  many  things  we  learned  at  Miss  Brace's.  We 
used  to  have  a  class  in  making  alum  baskets,  and  we 
painted  on  velvet.  It  was  certainly  very  elegant.  I 
don't  believe  there  are  such  schools  nowadays.  My 
paints  are  nearly  worn  out,  but  these  precious  chil 
dren  won't  mind  that — will  you,  my  darlings?" 

The  children  did  not  mind  in  the  least ;  so  they 
were  all  put  down  around  the  dining-room  table,  each 
one  with  an  old  magazine  full  of  wood-cuts,  which 
gave  great  choice  as  to  the  subject  to  be  colored. 
They  were  hard  at  work  when  Charles's  letter  and 
the  package  of  presents  arrived.  At  the  mention  of 
presents  the  four  artists,  greatly  excited,  slipped  from 
their  chairs,  leaving  the  pictures  of  "  Little  Dorrit " 
half  finished,  and  their  brushes  standing  in  dauby 
tumblers  of  colored  water.  Rose,  on  her  knees  among 
them,  looked  at  the  dolly's  shoes,  and  drew  on  the 
transparent  slate,  and  promised  to  read  the  book 
aloud,  all  the  while  raging  at  the  tender  father  who 
bought  presents  out  of  Miss  Maria's  money  (and  yet 
he  was  a  tender  father — nobody  could  possibly  deny 
that).  Miss  Maria,  smiling  at  the  children's  joy,  and 
cuddling  Theodore,  read  the  letter  with  a  startled 
look  that  changed  into  absolute  bewilderment :  The 
enterprise  had  failed  ;  Charles  was  bankrupt  ;  the 
money  was  lost — her  money  (and  Charles's  time  as 
well).  She  read  with  Theodore  clinging  about  her 
neck,  and  had  to  stop  to  kiss  him,  and  listen  to  his  rat 
tle,  and  cuddle  him,  yet  her  bewildered  eye  followed 
Charles's  bold  handwriting  with  dreadful  clearness. 

"  Rose,"  she  said  tremulously,  "  I'm  afraid  it's  bad 
news,  my  dear  ;  I'm  afraid  it's  a  little  serious." 


MISS    MARIA 

Of  course  then  it  had  to  be  read  aloud  to  Rose. 
This  was  a  terrible  task — Rose  kneeling  on  the 
hearth-rug,  playing  with  Charles's  children,  and  say 
ing  not  one  word ;  but  Miss  Maria  saw  the  girl's 
cheek  grow  rigid  over  her  set  teeth,  and  little  Edith 
shrunk  away  from  her,  frightened  at  the  anger  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  little  serious,"  Rose  said,  grimly.  The 
children,  squabbling  joyously  over  their  possessions, 
felt  the  sudden  cloud,  and  looked  up,  wondering. 

"  Of  course  it's  serious  ;  but  never  mind,  my  dear," 
Miss  Maria  said ;  "  we'll  get  along."  Then,  her  hands 
shaking,  she  opened  the  letter  again  and  tried  to 
take  in  the  facts  :  an  infringement  ;  a  miscalculation 
as  to  the  amount  of  alloy  in  the  metal,  necessitating 
a  much  higher  price  than  had  been  reckoned ;  the 
plant  now  almost  worthless  ;  unfortunate  litigation 
necessary.  Possibly,  only  possibly —  "  but  we  must 
leave  no  stone  unturned,"  Charles  said,  courageously 
— possibly  a  little  more  money  might  set  the  thing 
on  its  feet.  ("  But  I  haven  t  any  more,"  said  Miss 
Maria  to  herself.)  However,  that  it  was  the  Lord's 
doing  Charles  had  no  doubt.  "  Dear  boy  !  what  a 
lesson  he  is  to  me  !"  said  Miss  Maria,  her  eyes  full  of 
tears.  "What  should  I  do  if  he  were  rebellious,  or 
did  not  put  his  trust  in  his  Heavenly  Father  ?"  The 
submission  in  her  face  silenced  Rose's  bitter  tongue. 
The  girl  squeezed  her  hands  together,  and  did  not 
open  her  lips. 

"  He  bears  it  so  beautifully,"  said  Miss  Maria, 
wiping  her  eyes.  "  Did  you  notice,  Rose,  on  the 
third  page,  where  he  says — let  me  see,  here  it  is — 
'  but  we  know  the  Lord  will  provide '  ?  Dear,  pre 
vious  boy  !  What  an  example  he  is  !" 

H3 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"What  kind  of  an  example?"  Rose  said,  curtly; 
and  then  burst  out  crying,  and  knelt  down  at  Miss 
Maria's  side,  and  put  her  arms  around  her  waist,  and 
asked  to  be  forgiven.  "  You're  an  example  !  I  wish 
I  were  a  quarter  as  good." 

As  for  Miss  Maria,  she  was  afraid  she  had  been 
harsh,  and  kissed  Rose's  brown  head,  and  said  : 
"  Come,  come  !  Never  mind  ;  it  will  all  be  right  !" 

But  Rose  could  not  hold  her  tongue. 

"  Charles  meant  well,  I  suppose,  Cousin  Maria  ;  but 
it  isn't  enough  in  this  world  just  to  mean  well.  I 
hate  him  !  How  could  he  let  you  suffer  ?" 

And  then  Miss  Maria  had  to  scold  her  again,  and 
then  apologize  again,  and  then  bid  her  cheer  up  and 
look  after  those  precious  children.  After  that  she 
went  up-stairs  to  her  bedroom,  leaving  the  children 
to  Rose  and  their  toys.  She  wanted  to  be  alone  and 
get  her  breath.  It  was  growing  dusk,  and  the  vines 
grew  so  close  about  the  windows,  drooping  even  in  a 
green  fringe  from  the  lintels,  that  the  room  was  dark 
— too  dark  to  read  again  the  bleak  facts  of  Charles's 
letter,  or  the  words  of  sacred  comfort  that  she  had 
known  and  lived  on  these  many  years — long  enough 
before  Mr.  Charles  Welwood  had  adopted  them  as  his 
own. 

"  I  haven't  any  more  money  ;  and  what  are  we  go 
ing  to  do  ?"  she  said  to  herself,  in  despair.  And 
then  she  remembered  what  her  nephew  had  said. 
"  Yes,  He  will  provide  ;  these  darling  children  are 
His,"  said  Miss  Maria,  and  got  up  in  the  dark 
ness,  and  knelt  down  beside  her  big  four-poster, 
and  hid  her  face  on  the  soft,  lavender  -  scented 
pillow.  When  she  got  up — rather  stiffly,  for  she 
had  knelt  there  a  long  time — she  wiped  her  eyes, 

114 


MISS    MARIA 

and   went  smiling  down-stairs  to  the  children  and 
Rose. 

"My  darling  Rose,"  she  said,  "of  course  it's  unfort 
unate.  But  it  isn't  the  worst  thing  in  the  world. 
Suppose  some  of  you  were  dangerously  sick  !  Would 
I  think  of  mere  money  then  ?  No,  indeed  !  We'll 
get  along  nicely  ;  and — and  we  mustn't  let  Charles 
know  how  serious  it  is  ;  he  would  feel  so  badly.  Be 
sides,  it  isn't  so  very  bad,  so  never  mind  !  Now 
don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more.  These  precious 
children  must  have  their  supper  and  play  with  these 
nice  presents  their  dear  father  has  sent  them,  and 
have  a  happy  time.  When  they've  gone  to  bed,  we'll 
talk  it  all  over." 


At  first  Miss  Maria  shut  the  appalling  fact  that  she 
was  penniless  in  upon  herself  and  Rose.  Charles 
came  flying  down  to  Old  Chester  to  explain  and  to 
protest  at  fate.  He  made  no  excuses  ;  why  should 
he  ?  He,  too,  had  lost  everything  he  possessed, 
although  a  new  baby  came  just  at  that  moment  to 
comfort  him — a  new  baby  that  was  to  be  called  Maria. 
He  had  lost  all  he  had  in  the  world,  so  he  certainly 
was  not  to  be  blamed,  he  told  his  Edith  ;  besides,  as 
she  would  remember,  he  had  distinctly  said  he  would 
not  urge  his  aunt  Maria  to  invest.  "  It  was  her  own 
judgment,  you  know,  Edith, "said  Charles  ;  "  I  really 
can't  feel  myself  responsible." 

Charles  was  in  hopes  of  getting  a  place  as  a  clerk 
in  a  railroad  office.  But  before  going  to  work  he 
came  (on  borrowed  money)  to  condole  with  his  aunt 
and  to  advise.  He  thought  it  would  be  well,  he  said, 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

for  her  to  mortgage  her  house  and  invest  the  money, 
living  on  the  interest,  less  the  interest  on  the  mort 
gage. 

"  I'm  sure  I  could  get  ten  per  cent,  for  you  on  some 
perfectly  conservative  stock,"  he  said. 

"  But  mightn't  there  be  a  little  risk,  dear  Charles?" 
Miss  Maria  objected,  mildly.  "Not  that  I  don't  trust 
your  judgment  absolutely,"  she  added,  quickly,  for 
she  thought  he  looked  hurt. 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  live  on  ?"  Charles 
faltered,  his  blue  eyes  staring  at  her  in  dismay  ; 
"  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

Alas  !  how  many  times  had  Miss  Welwood  asked 
herself  that  very  question,  her  gentle  heart  sinking 
lower  and  lower  at  the  blank  reply  of  silence  in  her 
own  mind.  She  did  not  consult  any  one,  but  she 
spent  a  good  deal  of  time  on  her  knees  beside  her 
high  bedstead  ;  and  of  late  she  thought  a  glimmer  of 
light  had  fallen  on  the  subject. 

"You've  got  to  have  something  to  live  on," 
Charles  repeated,  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"Well,  I  have  an  idea,"  she  said.  "  No,  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  you  ;  it  shall  be  a  surprise.  But  I'm 
sure  it's  going  to  be  a  good  thing." 

She  had  told  Rose  her  "  idea  "  ;  she  had  to  tell  her, 
for  the  girl  had  been  in  a  frenzy  of  anxiety  to  do 
something  ;  "  anything,"  Rose  said,  and  meant  it— 
for  she  had  a  very  determined  plan  of  going  to  Mer 
cer,  to  get  a  place  in  a  shop.  "  There's  nothing  in 
Old  Chester  for  a  girl  to  do,"  Rose  said,  impatient, 
and  loving,  and  raging  at  poor  well  -  meaning 
Charles. 

It  was  to  prevent  this  Mercer  project  that  Miss 
Maria  confided  her  idea.  "  For  you  can  help  me,  my 

116 


MISS    MARIA 

darling,"  she  told  the  girl  ;  "  indeed,  I  couldn't  do  it 
without  you — you  are  so  much  fresher  in  some  of  the 
things  than  I  am.  For  instance,  Rose,  what  is  the 
length  of  the  Amazon  River  ?  I'm  ashamed  to 
say  I've  forgotten."  And  then  she  explained  her 
plan. 

Miss  Maria  had  hoped,  at  first,  to  keep  the  knowl 
edge  of  the  catastrophe  to  herself,  thinking  in  some 
irrational,  tender,  feminine  way  that  if  she  gave  no 
reason  for  her  project  of  self-support,  Charles  would 
not  be  connected  with  it,  and  so  would  not  be 
blamed.  But  of  course  the  disaster  had  to  be  known. 
By  its  very  nature  an  oil-can  does  not  explode  in  the 
dark.  In  a  week  Old  Chester  knew  that  Miss  Maria 
Welwood  had  lost  almost  all  her  money. 

"And  what's  she  going  to  live  on?"  Old  Chester 
said,  with  a  gasp  of  dismay.  "  What  on  earth  is  she 
going  to  live  on  !  What  is  she  going  to  do  ?" 

It  was  poor  Miss  Maria's  question  over  again  : 
"  What  am  I  going  to  do  to  earn  my  living?"  Now 
this  question,  asked  by  the  suddenly  impecunious, 
middle-aged,  unmarried  woman,  is  ghastly  ;  it  was 
especially  so  in  a  place  like  Old  Chester,  where 
the  demand  for  women  in  the  industries  was  un 
known.  It  is  a  wretched  enough  question  even  in 
the  great  busy  world,  where  there  is  so  much  to  be 
done,  but  where,  alas  !  this  frightened  feminine  voice 
is  lifted  up  in  such  a  gathering  chorus.  No  one  can 
quite  understand  the  misery,  the  sick  hopelessness  of 
the  inquiry  but  the  woman  herself.  She  begins  by 
reckoning  up  her  abilities  :  She  can  sew  ;  yes,  but 
who  wants  her  sewing  ?  Nobody  !  She  can  keep 
house,  in  a  small  way  ;  yes,  but  for  one  such  posi 
tion  a  hundred  applicants  are  already  entreating — 

117 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

younger,  cleverer,  better-looking,  perhaps.  Nursing  ; 
yes,  in  the  tender,  ignorant,  old-fashioned  way.  But 
see  the  crowd  of  women  educated  in  the  science  and 
business  of  caring  for  the  sick  :  who  will  take  her, 
when  a  dozen  trained  nurses  are  ready  at  every  doc 
tor's  elbow  ?  Teaching  ?  Yes  ;  but  come  now,  can 
you  or  I,  at  fifty,  remember  the  multiplication  table  ? 
And  contrast  the  curriculum  of  the  private  school 
to-day  with  that  which  prevailed  fifty  or  sixty  years 
ago  !  No  ;  we  middle-aged  folk  have  the  education 
of  life,  truly  ;  we  know  the  multiplication  table  of 
anxieties  and  sorrows,  the  subtraction  table  of  loss, 
the  division  table  of  responsibility.  Deportment  and 
religion  we  might,  perhaps,  impart ;  but  who  is 
ready,  at  a  moment's  notice,  to  instruct  eager  and 
irreverent  youth  in — dear  me  !  what  does  not  youth 
study  nowadays  ?  Yet  it  was  to  teaching  that  Miss 
Maria  Welwood  looked  to  provide  bread  for  herself, 
and  bread  and  butter  for  Rose,  and  bread  and  butter 
and  jam  for  Charles's  children. 

"  There's  nothing  else  I  can  do,  Matty,"  she  plead 
ed  to  Mrs.  Barkley,  who  sat  snorting  with  anger  and 
misery. 

"  Maria,"  said  Mrs.  Barkley,  her  eyebrows  twitch 
ing  violently,  "  you  are  a  perfect  fool  !" 

Miss  Welwood  had  sought  to  soften  the  blow  which 
she  knew  the  knowledge  of  her  poverty  would  be  to 
Mrs.  Barkley  by  bringing  a  little  present  with  her. 
It  was  no  more  than  a  slipper-bag,  which,  before  this 
grim  fact  of  poverty  had  taken  possession  of  her 
thoughts,  she  had  made  for  her  friend  ;  since  then 
she  had  been  so  anxious  and  confused  she  had  for 
gotten  to  present  it. 

"  I  promised  it  to  you  a  month  ago,"  she  said,  "  and 
118 


MISS    MARIA 

I  am   ashamed   to   say  I  forgot   to   bring  it   over, 
Matty  ;  but  here  it  is  now." 

"  You  needn't  apologize,"  said  Mrs.  Barkley.  "  I've 
lived  all  my  life  without  a  slipper  -  bag  ;  I  guess  a 
week  or  two  more  won't  hurt  me.  Besides,  I  don't 
wear  slippers.  Still,  I'm  obliged  to  you." 

"  I've  had  so  much  on  my  mind,"  said  Miss  Maria, 
nervously  ;  and  then  confessed. 

Poor  Mrs.  Barkley  !  She  was  so  angry  and  so 
wretched  that,  for  once,  she  could  not  speak  ;  so 
Miss  Welwood  got  in  her  explanations  and  inten 
tions  almost  without  interruption.  She  and  Rose 
were  going  to  support  themselves  by  teaching. 
Then  it  was  that  Mrs.  Barkley  called  her  a  fool. 

"  In  the  first  place,  all  the  children  go  to  Miss 
Bailey's,  or  else  to  the  public  school,"  she  said,  with 
two  little  hot  tears  trickling  down  her  nose.  "  I 
wish  Charles  Welwood  had  to  go  out  and  break 
stones  !  But  you'll  see  that  he  has  his  trips  South, 
and  all  his  children  dressed  in — in  gold,"  said  Mrs. 
Barkley,  in  a  flight  of  angry  and  terrified  fancy,  "  but 
you,  you  poor,  dear  Maria — "  and  then  Mrs.  Barkley 
snorted,  and  wiped  her  eyes  on  the  slipper  -  bag, 
and  observed  that,  for  her  part,  she  never  could 
waste  her  time  making  things  like  that !  Miss  Maria 
came  and  put  her  arms  about  her  neck  and  kissed 
her. 

"  Oh,  Matty,"  she  said,  "  what  should  I  do  without 
you  ?  I  do  thank  my  Heavenly  Father  that  I've  got 
such  a  friend  !" 

"  Well,  then,"  retorted  Mrs.  Barkley,  "  be  guided 
by  me.  Come  and  live  here.  It  will  be  a  blessing 
to  me.  The  greatest  blessing.  Maria,  I  shall  think 
it  all  providential  if  you'll  only  come." 

119 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Matty,"  said  the  other,  the  tears  running  over 
her  cheeks,  "  it's  worth  while  to  be  poor  !  But  I 
couldn't  come  here  ;  no,  dear  Matty,  no  ;  you  must 
not  urge  it.  As  for  Miss  Bailey,  I  wouldn't  interfere 
for  the  world  ;  I  don't  mean  a  child's  school.  I  mean 
an  academy  for  young  ladies.  You  know  Mrs.  Dale 
had  to  send  Ellen  away  to  boarding-school;  and 
Mrs.  Wright  told  me  herself  once  that  it  was  a 
great  expense  to  her  to  have  to  educate  Lydia 
away  from  home,  and  she  didn't  know  how  she 
would  manage  with  Mary  and  Agnes  ;  and  then 
the  new  people  have  girls,  the  rich  Smiths  have 
two  ;  and  Rachel  King  would  send  Anna,  I 
know." 

"  Did  you  mean  to  have  a  boarding-school  ?"  Mrs. 
Barkley  demanded. 

"  I  mean  an  academy,  dear  Matty,  on  the  lines  of 
Miss  Brace's  ;  of  course  it  never  could  be  so  fine, 
but  I'll  do  my  best.  The  young  ladies  may  board, 
or  they  may  return  to  their  families  at  night,  if 
their  parents  prefer."  And  then  Miss  Maria  pro 
duced  her  trump  card  :  "  In  fact,  Matty,  my  dear,  I 
have  arranged  an  advertisement  of  the  school,  and 
it  is  to  appear  in  the  Globe  next  Saturday.  This  is 
a  proof.  (The  gentleman  to  whom  I  gave  my  notice 
called  it  a  'proof'.)"  She  fumbled  in  a  reticule  at 
her  side — a  black  bag  with  a  band  of  flexible  bead 
embroidery  representing  flowers  and  blue  stars — and 
produced  the  notice  ;  the  bit  of  paper  was  flimsy  and 
inky,  and  it  had  several  typographical  errors,  but  it 
displayed  the  advertisement,  enclosed  in  a  black 
border  of  inverted  urns,  which,  in  an  upright  posi 
tion,  formed  the  usual  frame  for  the  funeral  notices 
in  the  Globe  : 

120 


MISS    MARIA 


MISS   MARIA   WELLWOOD 

Begs  leave  to  Intimate  to  her  friends  and  the  Inhabitants 

of  Old  Chester  that  She  Intends  to  Open  an  Academy 

On  Monday,  2Oth  of  November,  for  the  Instruction 

of  Young  Ladies,  in  Grammar,  Arithmetic,  Geography 

(with  the  use  of  the  Globes  and  Mapping),  Chronology, 

Drawing,  French,  Painting  on  Velvet,  Berthollet  Art 

System,  Painting  on  Glass,  Mezzotinto,  Alum  Baskets, 

Wax  Flowers,  Plain  and  Ornamental  Needle-Work. 

Especial  Attention  will  be  given  to 

Deportment  and  Religion. 

Miss  WELLWOOD, 
Locust  Street,  Old  Chester. 


"  You  know,  Matty,"  Miss  Maria  said,  eagerly, 
"  we  had  all  those  things  at  Miss  Brace's.  Dear 
me  !  can't  you  just  see  Miss  Brace  when  she  opened 
the  classes  in  September,  with  those  white  curls  and 
her  turban  !  Oh,  my  gracious,  how  we  girls  used  to 
shiver  when  she  pointed  her  forefinger  at  us  !  I 
sha'n't  do  that,  anyhow." 

"  Nobody  would  shiver  if  you  did,"  Mrs.  Barkley 
assured  her.  "  Miss  Brace  was  very  genteel  and  dig 
nified;  but  if  you  think,  Maria  Welwood,  that  you — " 

"  Oh,"  Miss  Maria  said,  with  eager  humility,  "  of 
course  not  !  but  I've  got  my  notes,  and  I'm  going 
to  say  just  the  same  things.  I  was  looking  over  her 
remarks  on  art  this  morning — I  took  'em  down  in 
my  commonplace-book— and  I've  committed  'em  to 
memory  :  '  The  making  of  wax  floivers  is  an  art  most 
suitable  for  young  ladies  ;  frost  and  snoiv  may  reign 
around  us,  and  nip  the  tender  blossoms  in  our  gardens, 
but  our  homes  may  still  be  made  elegant  by  delightful 
representations  of  Flora's  children'  We  began  with 

9  121 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

the  pomegranate  flower,"  Miss  Welwood  ended,  with 
a  happy  sigh  of  memory. 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Barkley  said,  morosely,  "  I  don't  be 
lieve  anybody  would  pay  twenty-five  cents  to  learn 
how  to  make  a  pomegranate  flower,  nowadays  ;  / 
wouldn't.  Anyhow,  I  don't  believe  you  remember 
it,  Maria.  I  tell  you,  the  only  thing  for  you  to  do  is 
to  come  here.  Now,  Maria — I — I — wish  you  would," 
said  Mrs.  Barkley,  with  a  sob. 

But  Miss  Welwood  only  patted  the  hard  old  hand, 
and  said,  cheerfully  :  "  Of  course  I  shall  have  to 
brush  up  a  little.  I  wasn't  quite  sure  about  the 
alum  baskets,  but  I  tried  one  to  -  day,  and  it  came 
out  pretty  well.  History  is  the  only  thing  I'm  ner 
vous  about,  but  Rose  is  pretty  fresh  in  that.  As 
for  arithmetic,  of  course  I'll  have  all  the  answers 
in  the  book,  so  I  can  tell  when  the  sums  are  not 
right." 

"  Well — "  began  Mrs.  Barkley,  slowly,  and  then 
burst  out  :  "  Suppose  Rose  were  to  get  married  ? 
You  couldn't  get  along  by  yourself,  so  what's  the 
use  of  beginning  ?" 

"Rose  get  married?"  said  Miss  Maria.  "Well — I 
don't  see  any  prospect  just  now  ;  not  but  what  any 
gentleman  might  be  glad  to  have  her." 

"  If  she  did,  you'd  go  and  live  with  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Barkley,  decidedly,  "so  why  not  both  of  you  come 
here  until  then  ?" 

"  I  wouldn't  think  of  living  with  her,"  cried  Miss 
Maria,  with  spirit  ;  "  no,  indeed  !  If  my  darling 
Rose  gets  married,  and  leaves  the  academy,  I'll — 
I'll  just  get  something  else  to  do.  Or  maybe  by 
that  time  I'll  have  brushed  up  so  I  can  keep  along 
by  myself.  But  no  young  gentleman  is  waiting  on 

122 


MISS    MARIA 

Rose.  Why,  there  aren't  any  young  gentlemen  in 
Old  Chester  !" 

Mrs.  Barkley  took  off  her  spectacles,  and  looked  at 
Miss  Maria  sidewise. 

"  Suppose  Ezra  took  a  fancy  to  Rose  ?' 

"To — Rose?"  Miss  Welwood  looked  at  her  open- 
mouthed. 

"  Yes,  Rose,"  Miss  Barkley  repeated,  with  a  snap. 
"That's  what  I  said." 

"  Rose  !"  Miss  Maria  faltered.  And  then  she  said, 
with  a  certain  sharpness,  "  He's  twenty-five  years 
older  than  Rose." 

"  Well,  well,"  Mrs.  Barkley  interrupted,  crossly,  "  I 
only  said  ' 'suppose'  " 

Miss  Maria,  with  the  color  hot  in  her  face,  said 
again  something  of  age  and  youth  ;  "  and,  anyhow, 
they  never,  either  of  them,  thought  of  such  a  thing  !" 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Barkley,  "  very  likely  I  was  mis 
taken.  I  was  only  supposing,  anyway.  But  there's 
another  thing  (somebody's  got  to  talk  sense  to  you  !) 
— I  don't  believe  you'd  get  pupils  enough  to  pay  for 
your  shoestrings.  Miss  Brace  was  very  superior,  of 
course,  but  schools  are  very  different  now — I've  been 
told." 

"True,"  Miss  Welwood  admitted;  "too  true  ;  and 
it  is  high  time  that  things  should  improve.  If  I  may 
be  the  humble  instrument  in  educating  young  wom 
en  as  we  were  educated,  Matty,  to  respect  their 
parents,  and  honor  their  God,  and  learn  how  to  walk 
across  a  room  properly,  and  remember  dates — (Do 
you  recollect,  *  Now  Semiramis,  Beautiful  Sinner  ' — 
that  stood  for  1050  B.C.,  you  know — N.S.B.S.  Think 
how  I've  remembered  that  out  of  Miss  Brace's  old 
chronology) — if  I  can  teach  them  these  things,  I  shall 

123 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

feel  that  the  Lord  had  a  purpose  in  taking  away  my 
money." 

"  The  Lord,"  cried  Mrs.  Barkley,  angrily  ;  "  don't 
put  it  on  the  Lord's  shoulders  !" 

Afterwards,  when  she  repeated  this  conversation 
to  her  brother  -  in  -  law,  Mrs.  Barkley  added  that  it 
was  bad  enough  to  think  that  the  Lord  was  respon 
sible  for  creating  "that  Charles  ! — though  maybe  He 
isn't,"  said  Mrs.  Barkley,  in  a  deep  bass  ;  "  maybe  its 
Somebody  Else  !"  Which  bold  theology  was  quite 
startling,  even  to  a  man  who  had  gone  so  far  tow 
ards  infidelity  as  to  say  that  the  size  of  a  whale's 
throat  would  have  precluded  the  passage  of  a  man  of 
average  size — "  And  we  are  not  told  in  Holy  Writ 
that  Jonah  was  a  dwarf,"  Mr.  Ezra  had  said,  in  one 
of  those  rationalistic  flights  which  so  shocked  Old 
Chester. 

"That  Charles!"  said  Mrs.  Barkley.  "Think  of 
Maria,  at  her  time  of  life,  having  to  earn  her  own 
living  !" 

Mr.  Ezra  frowned  and  sighed.  "  I  fear,"  he  said, 
"  that  Miss  Welwood  will  not  find  that  appreciative 
demand  for — " 

"  An  academy  ?"  Mrs.  Barkley  finished.  "  Of  course 
not  !" 

"  — demand  for  alum  baskets,"  Mr.  Ezra  continued. 
He  had  not  meant  to  finish  his  sentence  in  that  way, 
but  it  was  as  good  as  any  other ;  and  it  was  his  own. 
"  But  I  cannot  but  admire,"  he  proceeded,  "  Miss 
Maria's  desire  for  independence  ;  it  commands  my 
respect.  Were  you  aware  that  the  number  of  school 
teachers  in  the  United  States  was — " 

"  Ezra,"  said  his  sister-in-law,  slowly,  looking  at 
him  over  her  spectacles,  "  to  be  perfectly  open  :  if 

124 


MISS    MARIA 

you  are  thinking  of  settling,  I  must  say  that  Rose  is 
a  girl  in  a  thousand.     I  don't  want  to  urge  or  influ 
ence  you,  but  I  must  say  that  1" 
And  Mr.  Ezra  listened. 


VI 

Mr.  Barkley  came  home  from  his  office  early  in  the 
afternoon.  He  had  a  careworn  expression  natural  to 
a  man  who  has  a  heavy  task  before  him  ;  he  stopped 
to  look  at  the  paroquets,  climbing  with  beak  and 
claw  up  the  wires  of  the  cage  and  squeaking  shrilly 
at  his  approach  ;  but  he  did  not  give  them  any  sugar 
or  scratch  their  heads.  He  was  thinking  to  himself 
that  in  two  hours — it  would  be  over  ;  he  would  be 
back  again,  and  could  sit  peacefully  down  in  his  arm 
chair,  and  let  the  parrots  walk  about  over  his  shoul 
ders  and  knees. 

"  I  do  not,"  he  thought,  "  understand  this  feeling 
of  enlargement  in  the  region  of  my  throat.  And  my 
respiration  is  hastened.  I  think  I  am  indisposed. 
At  such  a  moment  I  should  be  especially  calm.  Per 
haps  it  would  be  well  to  arrange  the  interview  to 
some  extent." 

Any  immediate  action  is  a  relief ;  and  Mr.  Ezra 
went  up-stairs  to  his  room,  to  get  his  brief  together, 
so  to  speak.  He  dressed  slowly,  and  just  before  he 
put  on  his  coat  he  opened  his  watch,  and  standing 
before  the  little  tipping  glass  on  his  high  bureau,  so 
that  he  might  watch  his  expression,  timed  himself  : 

"  I  will  open  the  subject  by  remarking  upon  the 
weather.  '  These  October  days  are  very  agreeable.' 
4  Yes,  Mr.  Ezra,'  she  will  reply.  *  I  trust  your  occu- 

125 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

pations  do  not  keep  you  in-doors  too  much  ?'  I  will 
say.  Here  I  might  introduce  some  interesting  data 
as  to  exercise.  (Allow  a  minute.)  Then  I  will  try 
and  bring  up  financial  matters,  and  speak,  perhaps, 
of  the  hardships  of  life.  (Allow  five  minutes.)  And 
then  I  must " — the  perspiration  started  to  Mr.  Ezra's 
brow — "  I  must  remark  that  I  should  be  pleased  to 
smooth  the  path  of  life  for  her  feet.  Ending  with 
the  request  that  she  should  accept  my  hand." 

Mr.  Barkley  looked  at  his  watch.  Fourteen  min 
utes.  Very  good.  Her  reply  would  no  doubt  take 
another  minute — allowing  for  the  ladylike  hesitation 
which  would  probably  precede  it.  Mr.  Ezra  grew 
more  careworn  every  instant. 

However,  he  had  to  go.  It  was  already  a  good 
half-hour  later  than  he  had  planned  to  start.  So  he 
took  his  stick,  and  set  his  teeth,  and,  opening  the 
front  door,  let  himself  out  into  the  still  October  sun 
shine.  His  sense  of  the  seriousness  of  his  object  im 
parted  dignity  to  his  rotund  and  somewhat  jaunty 
figure  ;  he  wore  a  full-skirted  frock-coat,  and  his 
high,  bell-crowned  hat  was  set  just  a  little  on  one 
side.  As  he  walked  he  kept  repeating  to  himself  the 
form  of  his  proposal.  When  he  reached  Miss  Wei- 
wood's  gate  he  had  only  gotten  so  far  as  the  "  hard 
ships  of  life,"  and  he  debated  with  himself  for  a  mo 
ment  as  to  whether  he  had  not  better  walk  on  and 
finish  his  silent  rehearsal  before  he  put  it  to  the 
touch.  But  while  he  stood  hesitating,  Rose  came 
down  the  garden  path,  and  when  she  saw  him  there 
came  that  flicker  of  fun  into  her  eyes  that  was  so  dis 
concerting  to  Mr.  Ezra.  "  You'll  find  Cousin  Maria 
in  the  parlor,  Mr.  Barkley,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  quite  so, 
quite  so,"  replied  Mr.  Barkley,  alarmed,  but  so  polite 

126 


MISS    MARIA 

that  before  he  knew  it  he  found  himself  ushered  into 
the  parlor  and  into  Miss  Welwood's  presence. 

Miss  Welwood  was  seated  at  a  spindle-legged  table 
drawn  close  to  the  window,  struggling,  it  appeared, 
to  make  wax  flowers.  She  was  deeply  depressed. 
Her  advertisement  was  to  come  out  in  two  days,  and 
the  academy  was  to  open  in  less  than  a  month,  and 
here  she  was  "  brushing  up  "  her  accomplishments, 
only  to  discover  that  her  hand  had  lost  its  cunning  ; 
for  even  Miss  Maria  could  see  that  the  heavy  dark 
red  spirals  stuck  to  shaky  green  stems  were  as  unlike 
the  flowers  she  meant  to  make  as  the  painty  smell  of 
the  wax  was  unlike  the  fragrance  of  roses.  Her  fin 
gers  were  clumsy  and  trembling,  and  a  dull  feeling 
of  fright  was  growing  up  in  her  breast.  Suppose  she 
should  find  she  had  forgotten  the  use  of  the  globes  ? 
Suppose  that  she  could  not  remember  Berthollet's 
method  ?  Suppose  she  should  not  be  able  to  recall 
the  ornamental  needle-work  with  which  young  ladies 
should  be  taught  to  while  away  the  time?  She 
looked  over  at  the  whatnot,  where  a  little  air-castle, 
made  of  squares  of  perforated  card-board,  worked  in 
single  zephyr  and  caught  together  at  the  angles,  was 
dangling  from  a  knob  on  the  top  shelf ;  how  was  it 
made  ?  Miss  Maria  sobbed  under  her  breath. 

Then  she  looked  up  and  saw  Mr.  Ezra  stumbling 
among  the  chairs  and  tables,  for  the  room  was  shad 
owy,  even  though  the  autumn  nights  had  thinned 
the  vines  about  the  windows,  and  some  of  the  broad 
five-fingered  leaves  of  the  Virginia  creeper  were 
stained  crimson. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Ezra !"  she  said,  "  it  is  indeed  a  compli 
ment  to  have  a  call  from  a  gentleman  in  the  after 
noon.  How  is  dear  Matty  ?" 

127 


OLD    CHESTER   TALES 

Mr.  Ezra  Barkley  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  his 
forehead.  "  I  fear  I  am  interrupting  your  delight 
ful  work,"  he  said,  politely. 

"  Oh  no,  indeed,"  she  said.  "  You  couldn't  inter 
rupt  me,  Mr.  Ezra.  I  am  making  wax  roses.  I  hope 
you  think  they're — pretty  good  ?"  She  looked  at 
him  wistfully. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  just  so  ;  quite  so  ;  most  beautiful ;"  he 
assured  her,  kindly.  "  These — ah — October  days  are 
very  agreeable,  Miss  Maria  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  agreed,  "  I  suppose  they  are,  but  I've 
had  a  good  deal  on  my  mind  ;  I  have  not  noticed 
them,  I  am  afraid.  You  know  I  am  going  to  open 
an  academy,  Mr.  Ezra  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  eagerly  ;  this  was  more  direct  than 
he  could  have  hoped— the  reference  to  exercise  might 
be  omitted,  and  he  could  proceed  at  once  to  financial 
matters  and  the  hardships  of  life.  This  he  did,  with 
several  statistical  allusions  to  which  Miss  Welwood 
listened  with  deep  attention. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  said,  "  if  I  only  had  some  of  your 
learning,  Mr.  Ezra,  I  am  sure  my  academy  would  be 
successful !" 

"  Well,  now,  for  the  matter  of  the  academy,"  said 
Mr.  Barkley,  changing  color  violently,  "  may  it  not 
be  possible  that  some  other  arrangement  may  be 
made  ?  In  fact,  I  had  in  mind  a — ah — plan  which 
would  make  it  possible  for  you  to  give  it  up.  It  is 
of  this  I  came  to  speak  this  afternoon."  (Here  Mr, 
Ezra  looked  at  his  watch.) 

"  If  you  mean  coming  to  live  with  Matty,"  she  said, 
touched  and  smiling,  "  it's  just  the  kindest  thing  in 
the  world  for  you  both  to  think  of  it  ;  but  indeed  I 
couldn't  do  it.  Why,  what  would  become  of  Rose  ?" 

128 


MISS    MARIA 

"Oh,  Miss  Rose  would  be  there  too,"  Mr.  Ezra 
said,  warmly ;  "  in  fact,  personally,  I  would  find  her 
presence  a  most  agreeable  addition  to  the  house 
hold." 

Miss  Maria  smiled,  but  shook  her  head.  "  You  are 
both  of  you  just  as  kind  as  you  can  be ;  but  I'm 
going  to  work,  Mr.  Ezra."  Miss  Maria  took  up  a 
strip  of  pink  wax,  and  rolled  it  into  a  coil  for  the 
heart  of  a  rose.  "  Indeed  I  do  appreciate  what  Mat 
ty  offered,"  she  said  ;  "  I  shall  never  forget  it.  And 
— and  your  kindness,  too."  She  looked  at  him  as  she 
spoke,  and  her  lip  quivered. 

"  Miss  Maria,"  said  the  little  gentleman,  "  I  was 
not  referring  to  Matilda's  plan." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Maria,  blankly. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Ezra  ;  "  I  have  an  idea  of 
my  own,  which  seems  to  combine  my  sister's  wishes, 
with  greater,  as  I  may  say,  convenience,  and — and 
suitability.  Miss  Maria,  you  may  not  be  aware  that 
the  average  life  of  the  married  man  exceeds  that  of 
the  bachelor  by  some  years  ?  And  I — it — my  sis 
ter — "  Mr.  Ezra  was  very  unhappy ;  he  turned  red, 
and  put  on  his  hat;  stammered,  and  took  it  off  again. 
As  for  Miss  Welwood,  she  sat  up  very  straight,  and 
squeezed  her  hands  together  under  the  table.  She 
had  forgotten  Mrs.  Barkley's  suggestion  about  Rose, 
but  it  all  came  back  to  her :  he  was  going  to  offer 
himself  to  Rose  !  Her  face  grew  white,  but  she  did 
not  speak.  Mr.  Barkley  continued,  bravely  :  "  I  have 
given  the  subject  much  thought,  and  I  am  con 
vinced  that  my  —  my  plan  will  be  a  desirable  ar 
rangement.  I  venture  to  hope  that  Miss  Rose  will 
not  object  to  it,  if  you  do  not." 

"  Rose  is  very  young,"  Miss  Welwood  said,  in  a 
129 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

low  voice.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  her — her  senti 
ments." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Ezra,  and  drew  him- 
self  up,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  kindly  eye.  "Miss 
Welwood,  I  have  long  felt  the  deepest  esteem  for 
you,  and  your  present  courageous  attitude  in  this 
distressing  financial  crisis  has  added  admiration  to 
esteem.  Miss  Welwood,  though  in  matters  so  deli 
cate  as  the  affections  I  dislike  haste,  the  exigencies 
of  the  present  moment  must  be  my  excuse  for  so 
abrupt  a  statement  of  my — my — of  my — ah — as  you 
might  say,  regard.  Miss  Welwood,  will  you  do  me 
the  honor  to  accept  my  hand  ?" 

Miss  Maria  put  down  the  roll  of  wax  on  the  table, 
and  stared  at  him. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  it  will  be — to  me,  an  agree 
able  solution  of  this  somewhat  difficult  situation. 
May  I  hope  that  your  sentiments  towards  me  are 
not  unkind  ?" 

"  Why,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  "  I  don't — under 
stand  !" 

"  I  am  aware  that  my  request  may  seem  sudden," 
Mr.  Barkley  explained,  "  and  I  should  have  been 
glad  to  lead  up  to  it  with  proper  decorum  ;  but  I 
assure  you,  Miss  Maria,  of  the  warmth  of  my — my 
sentiments."  There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Mr. 
Ezra's  face  was  red  and  anxious.  "  I  trust  I  have 
not  offended  you  by  the — as  you  might  say,  blunt- 
ness  of  my  address  ?" 

"  No  ;  oh  no,"  Miss  Maria  assured  him,  faintly. 
Then  she  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "But  Matty? 
perhaps  Matty  would  have  wished  —  something 
else  ?" 

"  Miss  Rose  will  live  with  us,"  said  Mr.  Ezra,  with 
130 


MISS    MARIA 

calm  directness  ;   "  that  will   be  a  gratification  to 
Matilda,  beyond  a  doubt." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  Miss  Maria  said,  be 
ginning  to  roll  a  piece  of  wax  in  her  trembling  fin 
gers.  "  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing — at  least— 
not  lately." 

Then  suddenly  she  put  her  head  down  on  the  table 
on  the  strips  of  red  and  pink  wax,  and  covered  her 
eyes  with  her  shaking  fingers.  It  had  come — her 
long -delayed  romance.  Her  little  hope  had  risen 
on  glittering  wings  out  of  the  amber  of  the  past, 
where  it  had  lain  so  long.  Mr.  Ezra  had  spoken  ! 

She  looked  over  at  him,  and  put  her  hand  out 
across  the  table  and  touched  his  arm  timidly.  "  Ezra," 
she  said,  "  you  do — care  for  me  ?"  It  seemed  to  Miss 
Maria,  in  the  stress  and  reality  of  her  calamity,  that 
this  was  all  unreal — all  a  sort  of  play;  as  if  she  were 
looking  at  Mr.  Ezra  through  the  wrong  end  of  a 
magnifying-glass. 

Her  poor  little  words  pierced  the  haze  of  Mr. 
Ezra's  mild  and  kindly  wish  with  a  shock ;  he,  too, 
looked  at  her,  silent. 

"Why — "  he  said,  and  stopped.  After  all,  the  days 
when  such  a  question  would  have  had  meaning  for 
Ezra  were  very  far  back ;  perhaps  there  never  had 
been  such  days  ;  —  kindly,  silent,  dull,  with  few 
thoughts  and  many  facts,  perhaps  he  never  knew 
the  answer  a  man  might  make  to  such  a  question. 
All  he  knew  now  was  that  here  was  &fact:  a  lady 
for  whom  he  had  great  esteem  was  in  need.  But  as 
he  looked  at  her,  suddenly  he  blushed,  and  breathed 
a  little  more  quickly  ;  a  break  came  in  his  calm,  kind 
voice.  "  I  hope  you  will  think  favorably  of  my 
offer?"  he  said.  He  took  her  hand  and  patted  it. 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

with  evident  agitation.  "  I  entreat  you,  Miss  Maria," 
he  said. 
And  Miss  Maria  smiled  through  her  tears. 

Mrs.  Barkley  nearly  swooned,  she  told  Miss  Wei- 
wood  afterwards,  when  Ezra  came  home  and  told  her; 
and  she  added  that,  to  be  perfectly  frank,  Ezra  was  as 
stubborn  as  a  mule.  "  But  upon  my  word,"  said 
Mrs.  Barkley,  "  I  believe  he  was  right !  Everybody 
is  sometimes  right,  by  chance  ;  and  I  think,  after 
all,  that  this  is  the  best  arrangement.  But  why 
didn't  I  think  of  it  myself?  I  was  a  perfect  fool !" 

As  for  Rose,  the  gayety  leaped  back  into  her  voice; 
and  she  laughed  with  all  the  old  flashing  looks  and 
rapid  words,  and  declared  that  she  was  ready  to  say, 
u  Bless  you,  my  children,"  right  away. 

But  all  the  same  she  held  on  to  a  quiet  plan  of  her 
own  in  regard  to  some  work  Dr.  Lavendar  had  pro 
posed  for  her,  which  later  was,  it  must  be  admitted, 
a  blow  to  Mr.  Ezra. 

Charles  was  delighted.  He  sent  his  aunt  a  wed 
ding-present,  bought  from  her  last  loan  to  him,  and 
wrote  her  a  most  beautiful  letter,  which  he  ended 
by  protestations  of  unaltered  affection,  and  the 
statement  that,  as  things  had  turned  out,  it  proved 
just  what  he  had  said  :  "  The  Lord  would  provide  /" 


THE  CHILD'S  MOTHER 


THE  CHILD'S  MOTHER 


THE  winter  of  the  "  long  frost"  has  never  been  for 
gotten  in  Old  Chester.  The  river  was  frozen  over 
solidly  from  the  frightfully  cold  Sunday,  just  after 
Christmas,  when  Dr.  Lavendar  stayed  at  home  and 
Sam  Wright  read  the  service,  until  the  February 
thaw.  Not  that  the  thermometer  was  unreasonable; 
once  in  a  while,  to  be  sure,  it  did  drop  below  zero, 
but  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  there  was  only  a 
dark,  persistent  cold,  with  high  bleak  winds ;  it  was 
too  cold  for  the  soft  silencing  of  snow-storms,  though 
the  flakes  came  sometimes,  reluctantly,  in  little  hard 
pellets,  which  were  blown  from  the  frozen  ruts  of  the 
roads  in  whirls  of  icy  dust.  It  was  a  deadly  sort  of 
cold  that  got  into  the  bones,  the  old  people  said. 
Anyhow  it  got  on  to  the  nerves  ;  certainly  there 
never  was  a  winter  in  Old  Chester  when  so  many 
things  went  wrong.  There  were  happenings  among 
his  people  that  bowed  Dr.  Lavendar's  heart  down 
with  sorrow  and  pain.  Brave,  high-minded,  quick 
tempered  old  James  Shields  died.  The  Todds  quar 
relled  violently  while  that  black  cold  held ;  and 
the  eldest  Miss  Ferris  was  very,  very  ill.  It  was 
that  spring  that  the  "real  Smiths'"  eldest  son 

135 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

brought  disgrace  upon  their  honest  name  ;  and  that 
Miss  Jane  Jay,  to  the  scandal  and  grief  of  her  sis 
ters,  made  up  her  mind  not  to  go  to  church  any 
more.  And  in  the  midst  of  all  this  perplexity  and 
pain  Mrs.Drayton,  a  little  foolish  hypochondriac  with 
a  bad  temper,  became  so  anxious  about  her  spirit 
ual  condition  that  she  felt  it  necessary  to  see  her 
clergyman  several  times  a  week.  To  be  sure,  her 
solicitude  for  her  soul  was  checked  by  Dr.  Lavendar's 
calling  her  "  woman,"  and  telling  her  that  it  was 
more  important  to  be  amiable  in  her  family  than  to 
make  her  peace  with  God. 

"  He  has  no  spirituality,"  Mrs.  Drayton  said,  weep 
ing  angrily  ;  and  did  not  send  for  him  again  for  a 
fortnight. 

It  was  early  in  December  that  old  Mrs.  King  died, 
and  though  that  meant  that  her  daughter  Rachel 
might  draw  a  free  breath  after  years  of  most  wearing 
attendance,  it  meant  also  the  grief  of  the  poor 
daughter,  whose  occupation  was  gone. 

Yes,  it  was  a  hard,  dreary  winter,  "and  the  old 
minister's  heart  was  often  heavy  in  his  breast  ;  and 
when  one  day  there  came  to  him  a  sorrow  and  a  sin 
that  did  not  concern  any  of  his  own  people,  he  had  a 
curious  sense  of  relief  in  dealing  with  it. 

"  It  doesn't  touch  any  of  'em,  thank  the  Lord !"  he 
said  to  himself.  Yet  there  was  a  puzzle  in  it  that 
was  to  grow  until  it  did  touch — and  very  near  home, 
too.  But  Dr.  Lavendar  did  not  see  that  at  the  be 
ginning,  fortunately. 

It  was  one  Monday.  Dr.  Lavendar  never  had 
"  blue  Mondays  " — perhaps  because  he  preached  old 
sermons  ;  perhaps  because  he  was  so  dogmatically 
sure  that  the  earth  was  the  Lord's,  and  so  were  all 

136 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

the  perplexities  in  it,  and  all  the  sorrows,  too.  On 
this  particular  Monday,  just  after  dinner,  he  sat 
down  by  the  fire  (he  had  been  out  all  the  morn 
ing  in  the  sleet  and  snow,  so  he  felt  he  had 
earned  a  rest)  ;  he  put  on  his  preposterous  old 
flowered  cashmere  dressing-gown,  and  sat  down  by 
the  fire,  and  lighted  his  pipe,  and  began  to  read 
Robinson  Crusoe.  Dr.  Lavendar  had  long  since  lost 
count  of  the  number  of  times  he  had  read  this  im 
mortal  book,  but  that  never  interfered  with  his  en 
joyment  of  it ;  he  had  lost  count  of  the  number  of 
times  he  had  smoked  his  pipe,  if  one  comes  to  count 
ing  things  up.  He  had  a  way  of  sniffing  and  chuck 
ling  as  he  read,  and  he  was  oblivious  to  everything 
about  him — even  to  the  fire  going  out  sometimes,  or 
his  little  grizzly  dog  climbing  up  into  the  chair  be 
side  him,  or  the  door  opening  and  shutting.  The 
door  opened  and  shut  now,  and  he  never  heard  it ; 
only,  after  a  while  he  felt  an  uncomfortable  sense  of 
being  watched,  and  looked  up  with  a  start  that  made 
Danny  squeak  and  scramble  down  to  the  floor.  A 
girl  was  sitting  opposite  him,  her  heavy  eyes  fixed  on 
his  face. 

"Why — when  did  you  come  in  ?"  he  said,  sharply. 
"Who  are  you?" 

"  I'm  Mary  Dean,  sir.  I  come  in  a  few  minutes 
ago.  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  you,  sir."  She  said  it 
all  heavily,  with  her  miserable  eyes  looking  past  him, 
out  of  the  window  into  the  falling  sleet.  It  was  plain 
what  was  her  trouble,  poor  child !  The  old  man  looked 
at  her  keenly,  in  silence  ;  then  he  said,  cheerfully  : 

"  Come,  come,  we  must  have  a  better  fire  than  this. 
You  are  cold,  my  dear.  Suppose  you  drink  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  then  we  will  talk." 

10  I37 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  I  don't  want  no  tea,  sir,  thank  you,"  she  answered. 
"  I  thought  you  might  help  me.  I  come  from  Upper 
Chester,"  she  went  on,  vaguely.  She  looked  about 
her  as  she  spoke,  and  a  little  interest  crept  into  her 
flat,  impersonal  voice.  "  Why  are  them  swords 
hangin'  over  the  mantel  ?"  she  asked ;  and  then 
added,  sighing,  "  I'm  in  trouble." 

"  How  did  you  come  down  from  the  upper  village 
in  such  weather?"  Dr.  Lavendar  asked  her,  gently, 
after  a  minute's  pause. 

"  I  walked,  sir." 

He  exclaimed,  looking  at  her  anxiously.  "You 
must  have  dry  clothing  on,  my  child,"  he  said,  "and 
some  food,  before  you  say  another  word  !" 

The  girl  protested,  weakly  :  "  I  ain't  cold  ;  I  ain't 
hungry.  I  only  thought  you'd  tell  me  what  to  do." 

But  of  course  she  had  to  be  taken  care  of.  If  his 
Mary  had  not  had  thirty  years'  experience  of  his 
"perfectly  obsolete  methods,"  as  the  new  people  ex 
pressed  it,  she  might  have  been  surprised  to  find  her 
self  waiting  on  this  poor  fallen  creature,  while  Dr. 
Lavendar  urged  her  to  eat  and  drink,  and  showed 
her  how  Danny  begged  for  bread  with  one  paw  on 
his  nose  and  one  outstretched.  Afterwards,  when, 
fed  and  clothed,  the  girl  was  comforted  enough  to 
cry,  the  old  man  listened  to  her  story.  It  was  not  a 
new  one.  When  one  hears  it,  one  knows  the  heads 
under  which  it  divides  itself  :  vanity  first  ;  love  (so 
called)  next  ;  weakness  in  the  end.  It  is  so  pitiful 
and  foolish  that  to  call  it  by  the  awful  name  of  sin  is 
almost  to  dignify  it.  The  girl,  as  she  told  it,  bright 
ened  up  ;  she  began  to  enjoy  what  was  to  her  a 
dramatic  situation ;  she  told  him  that  she  "  had 
always  been  real  respectable,  but  she  had  been  de- 

138 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

ceived";  that  she  hadn't  a  friend  in  the  world — "no 
body  to  take  no  interest  in  her,"  as  she  put  it — for 
her  father  and  mother  were  dead  ;  and,  oh,  she  was 
that  unhappy  !  "  I  'ain't  slept  a  wink  for  'most  a 
month.  I  cry  all  night,"  she  burst  out.  "  I  just  do 
nothing  at  all  but  cry,  and  cry  !" 

"  Well,  I  guess  it's  the  best  thing  you  can  do,"  he 
answered,  quietly. 

Mary  looked  disappointed,  and  tossed  her  head  a 
little.  Then  she  said  that  of  course  she  hadn't  let  on 
to  anybody  in  Upper  Chester  what  was  wrong  with 
her,  because  all  her  lady  and  gentlemen  friends  had 
always  respected  her.  "  That's  why  I  come  down 
here ;  I  didn't  want  anybody  at  home  to  know,"  she 
explained,  rocking  back  and  forth  miserably. 

And  then,  perhaps  because  his  face  was  so  grave, 
she  said,  with  a  little  resentment,  that,  anyway,  it 
was  her  first  misstep  ;  "  there's  lots  of  girls  worse 
than  me  ; — and  he's  a  gentleman"  she  added,  lifting 
her  head  airily.  Her  glimmer  of  pride  was  like  the 
sparkle  of  a  scrap  of  tinsel  in  an  ash  heap.  He 
would  have  married  her,  she  went  on,  defending  her 
self,  only  he  was  married  already  ;  so  he  really 
couldn't,  she  supposed. 

Dr.  Lavendar  did  not  ask  her  the  man's  name,  nor 
suggest  any  appeal  to  him  for  money  ;  he  had  cer 
tain  old-fashioned  ideas  about  minding  his  own  busi 
ness  in  regard  to  the  first  matter,  and  certain  other 
ideas  concerning  the  injury  to  any  lingering  self- 
respect  in  the  woman  if  the  man  bought  his  way  out 
of  his  responsibility.  He  let  her  wander  on  in  her 
vague,  shallow  talk.  It  was  hard  to  see  what  was 
romance  and  what  was  truth.  She  had  so  far  re 
covered  herself  as  to  laugh  a  little,  foolishly,  and  say 

139 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

once  more  she  "  had  made  a  mistake,  of  course,"  but 
if  Dr.  Lavendar  would  just  help  her,  it  should  never 
happen  again.  "  This  time  I'll  keep  my  promise," 
she  said,  beginning  to  cry. 

"  This  time  ? "  said  Dr.  Lavendar  to  himself. 
44  Ho!" 

"  But  what  am  I  going  to  do  ?"  she  said.  "  If  my 
mother  was  to  hear  it,  I  suppose  she'd  kill  me — " 

"  Your  mother  ?"  he  repeated.     "  You  said — " 

But  she  did  not  notice  her  slip. 

44  Oh  dear  !  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  become 
of  me,  anyhow.  And  I  haven't  but  ten  cents  to  my 
name  !" 

With  shaking  ringers  she  opened  her  flat,  thin 
pocket-book,  and  disclosed  a  few  cents.  This,  at  least, 
seemed  to  be  true.  "  I'd  die  before  any  of  my  friends 
should  know  about  it  !"  she  sobbed. 

Dr.  Lavendar  let  her  cry.  He  looked  at  her  once 
or  twice  gravely,  but  he  did  not  speak  ;  he  was  won 
dering  what  woman  in  the  parish  he  could  call  upon 
to  help  him.  He  was  not  stern  with  her,  and  he  was 
not  repelled  or  shocked  by  her  depravity,  as  a 
younger  man  might  have  been  in  his  place.  He  was 
old,  and  he  was  acquainted  with  grief,  and  he  knew 
that  this  poor  creature's  wretchedness  had  in  it,  as 
yet,  no  understanding  of  sin  ;  she  was  only  incon 
venienced  by  the  consequences  of  wrong-doing.  But 
the  old  man  believed  that  the  whip  of  shame  and  pain 
could  drive  her,  as  the  Lord  means  it  shall,  into  an 
appreciation  of  the  expediency  of  morality — that  first 
low  step  up  to  the  full  realization  of  the  beauty  of 
holiness.  Being  old,  he  knew  all  this,  and  was 
patient  and  tender  with  the  poor  fool,  and  did  not 
look  for  anything  so  high,  so  awful,  so  deep,  as  what 

140 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

is  called  repentance.  And  then,  beside  the  knowledge 
of  life,  which  of  itself  makes  the  intellect  patient,  the 
situation  was  one  which  appealed  profoundly  to  this 
old  man  who  had  never  known  the  deep  experience 
of  paternity.  The  woman — so  inextricably  deep  in 
the  mire,  the  soul  of  her  killed,  almost  before  it  had 
been  born,  the  chances  of  her  moral  nature  torn  out 
of  helpless,  childless  hands  that  did  not  know  enough 
to  protect  them — a  kitten  drowned  before  its  eyes 
were  open  !  And  the  child — the  baby,  unborn,  un- 
desired,  weighted  with  what  an  inheritance  !  There 
was  no  baseness  in  this  poor,  cheap,  flimsy  creature 
that  could  arouse  a  trace  of  scorn  in  him.  He  let 
her  cry  for  a  while,  and  then  he  said,  mildly  : 

"  Where  is  your  other  child  ?"  She  started,  and 
looked  over  her  shoulder  in  a  half-frightened  way  : 

"Why  !  how  did  you  know  ?  Oh,  well,  my  soul !  I 
won't  deceive  you  :  I — I  left  it  in  Albany  with  my 
sister.  She's  supporting  it." 

Dr.  Lavendar  sighed.  "  It's  a  pity  you  can't  be 
truthful,  Mary.  I  could  help  you  better,  you  know. 
However,  I  won't  ask  you  to  tell  the  truth.  I'll  only 
ask  you  not  to  tell  me  any  lies.  That's  easier,  I 
guess.  Come,  now,  promise  me  you  won't  tell  me 
any  more  lies,  and  then  I  will  know  how  to  help 
you." 

Of  course  she  promised,  sobbing  a  little,  and  finger 
ing  her  poor  empty  pocket-book.  After  all,  that  was 
the  important  thing.  How  was  he  going  to  help 
her  ?  She  had  no  money,  and  she  could  not  get  any 
work  ;  and  if  this  minister  wouldn't  look  after  her, 
she  would  have  to  go  to  the  workhouse. 

But  he  was  going  to  look  after  her  :  that  was  Dr. 
Lavendar's  way.  For,  it  must  be  admitted,  Dr 

141 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Lavendar  did  not  understand  many  things  ;  he  was 
only  a  little,  feeble,  behind-the-times  old  clergyman. 
Out  of  his  scanty  salary  he  was  half  supporting  one 
shiftless  woman  with  an  enormous  family,  and  a 
paralytic  old  man,  and  a  consumptive  girl.  He  did 
not  stop  to  reflect  that  he  was  inviting  mothers  to 
burden  society  with  their  offspring,  and  encouraging 
old  men  to  become  paralytics,  and  offering  a  premium 
to  consumption.  No  ;  he  fed  the  hungry  and  clothed 
the  naked,  and  never  turned  his  face  from  the  face 
of  any  poor  man.  He  was  not  scientific  ;  he  was 
only  human.  He  hoped  and  he  believed  that  salva 
tion  was  possible  for  every  one — and  so  for  this  poor 
fallen  woman  with  the  empty  pocket-book,  whom  he 
was  going  to  look  after.  But  he  had  to  think  about 
it  a  little  while ;  so  he  bade  her  wait,  while  he  went 
and  fumbled  among  his  papers  and  memoranda,  and 
found  the  address  of  a  worthy  woman  in  Upper  Ches 
ter  who  would  take  her  to  board  and  give  her  the 
care  and  attendance  that  she  was  going  to  need. 
Then  he  made  a  little  calculation  in  his  own  mind 
that  had  reference  to  a  certain  old  book  upon  His 
torical  Sapphires,  that  he  had  long  desired  to  own ; 
then  thrust  out  his  lip  and  said,  "  Foolishness,  fool 
ishness  !"  under  his  breath ;  and  brought  a  little  roll 
of  money  and  put  it  into  her  hand. 

"  You  can  go  back  on  the  stage  to  Upper  Chester, 
and  then  you  are  to  go  to  this  street  and  number, 
and  give  this  note  to  the  kind  woman  who  lives 
there.  She  will  take  you  in,  my  child,  and  I  will 
come  and  see  you  in  a  few  days." 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 


II 

If  Susan  Carr  had  been  in  Old  Chester  that  winter, 
Dr.  Lavendar  would  have  handed  Mary  Dean  over 
to  her,  but  she  was  paying  a  long  visit  in  Mercer, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  nobody  to  take  care  of  the 
young  woman  but  himself.  Certainly  he  could  not 
ask  Miss  Maria  Welwood  ;  she  would  have  been  most 
anxiously,  tremulously  kind,  but  her  consciousness 
of  the  impropriety  of  the  situation  would  have  made 
her  useless.  Mrs.  Dale  was  too  stern  ;  Mrs.  Wright's 
large  family  took  up  all  her  time  ;  Rose  Knight  was 
too  young  to  know  about  such  matters  ;  and  so  was 
Sally  Smith.  Rachel  King  —  well,  yes,  there  was 
Rachel  King.  But  her  mother  had  just  died,  and 
Rachel  needed  a  little  time  to  breathe  without  any 
duty. 

"  Bless  her  heart !"  he  said  to  himself,  "  she  sha'n't 
have  any  more  work  to  do  for  a  while,  anyhow." 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  look  after  the  girl 
himself.  So  he  put  her  into  Mrs.  Wiley's  charge  at 
Upper  Chester,  and  took  the  long  stage  ride  twice  a 
week  to  visit  her,  and  paid  her  board,  and  begged 
baby  clothing  for  her,  and  watched  over  her  in  his 
queer,  kind,  dogmatic  way. 

"  He's  awful  fond  of  fussin',"  the  girl  said,  wearily. 

Mrs.  Wiley  had  always  a  string  of  complaints 
ready  for  him  :  Mary  was  such  a  dreadful  liar  !  She 
was  that  ungrateful,  Mrs.  Wiley  had  never  seen  the 
like  of  it  !  She  hadn't  any  decent  feelings,  anyhow, 
for  she  made  eyes  at  the  baker's  boy  till  Mrs.  Wiley 
said  she'd  put  her  out  on  the  sidewalk  if  she  didn't 
behave  ! 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Wait  ;  wait,"  he  would  say.  "  She'll  love  the 
child,  and  she'll  be  a  better  girl." 

"  It  don't  follow,"  said  Mrs.  Wiley,  with  a  signifi 
cant  toss  of  her  head.  "  She  allows  she  left  her  first 
child  in  New  York  with  an  aunt,  and  I  can't  see  as  it 
reformed  her  any." 

However,  neither  Mrs.  Wiley's  deductions  nor  the 
conflict  in  poor  Mary's  stories  prevented  Dr.  Laven- 
dar  from  hoping.  After  the  baby  was  born,  he  was 
eager  to  see  the  mother,  peering  into  her  face  with 
anxious  eyes,  as  though  he  thought  that  the  benedic 
tion  of  a  baby's  hand  must  have  blotted  out  shifti 
ness  and  sensuality  and  meanness.  But  Mary  only 
came  out  of  the  experience  of  birth  with  her  smooth, 
shallow  face  prettier  than  ever.  Then  Dr.  Lavendar 
bade  Mrs.  Wiley  wait  yet  a  little  longer.  "Wait 
until  she  begins  to  love  it,  and  then  we'll  see  !"  he 
said. 

"  Oh,  she  loves  it  enough,"  Mrs.  Wiley  conceded, 
grudgingly.  "  I  don't  deny  she  loves  it.  When  I 
take  it  up,  she  looks  at  me  just  like  our  old  cat  does 
when  I  touch  her  kittens.  Yes,  she  loves  it  fast 
enough  ;  but  she's  a  bad  girl,  that's  what  she  is, 
Dr.  Lavendar !" 

As  for  Dr.  Lavendar  himself,  he  was  immensely 
entertained  by  the  baby,  though  somewhat  afraid  of 
it.  He  used  to  hold  it  cautiously  on  his  knee,  chuck 
ling  to  himself  at  its  little,  pink,  clawlike  hands, 
which  grasped  vaguely  at  him,  and  at  its  funny, 
nodding,  bald  head,  and  its  tiny,  bubbling  lips. 
Mary  would  watch  him  languidly,  and  would  laugh 
too,  as  though  it  was  all  an  excellent  joke. 

"  If  it  was  a  boy,  I'd  name  it  after  you,"  she  said, 
with  coy  facetiousness.  At  which  Dr.  Lavendar 

144 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

came  out  of  his  sunny  mood,  and  said  "  Ho  !" 
gruffly,  and  put  the  baby  down.  The  girl  was  so 
utterly  devoid  of  any  understanding  of  the  situation 
that,  in  spite  of  his  hopefulness,  she  shocked  him 
again  and  again.  However,  he  kept  on  "looking 
after  her." 

The  child  was  baptized  Anna,  though  Mary  had 
suggested  Evelina.  "  Mary,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said, 
solemnly,  "  was  your  mother  a  good  woman  ?" 

"  My  mother  ?"  the  girl  said,  wincing.  "  She's — 
dead.  She  was  good.  My  land  !  if  she'd  lived  I 
wouldn't  'a'  been  here  !"  For  once  the  easy  tears 
had  not  risen  ;  she  looked  at  him  sullenly,  as  though 
she  hated  him  for  some  glaring  contrast  that  came 
into  her  thoughts.  "That's  honest,"  she  added,  simply. 

"  Then  we  will  name  the  baby  after  her,  because 
she  was  good/*  he  said  ;  and  "  Anna,"  was  accord 
ingly  "  grafted  into  the  body  of  Christ's  church." 

As  soon  as  she  was  strong  enough,  he  found  a  place 
for  Mary  to  work,  where  she  might  have  the  baby 
with  her.  "  The  child  and  good  honest  work  will 
save  her,"  he  would  say  to  himself ;  but  he  used  to 
shake  his  head  over  her  when  he  sat  smoking  his 
pipe  and  thinking  about  his  little  world.  "  And  that 
poor  baby  !"  he  would  say,  looking,  perhaps,  at  his 
wrinkled  forefinger,  and  thinking  how  the  baby  had 
clutched  it. 

Once  he  told  Rachel  King  about  it  all,  and  how 
pretty  the  child  was  —  that  was  when  it  was  five 
months  old,  and  the  red  and  clawing  stage  was  past, 
and  the  small  bald  head  was  covered  with  shining, 
silken  rings  of  hair,  and  its  eyes,  no  longer  hid  in 
creases  of  soft  baby  flesh,  were  blue  and  smiling,  and 
its  little  mouth  cooed  for  kisses. 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Oh,"  cried  Rachel  King,  "  to  think  that  such  a 
creature  should  have  it !" 

Not  that  Rachel  King  was  hard,  or  that  she  had 
the  shrinking  that  good  Miss  Maria  Welwood  would 
have  had ;  but  her  whole  heart  rose  at  the  mention 
of  a  baby.  "  The  little  darling,"  she  said  ;  and  the 
color  came  up  into  her  face,  and  her  eyes  gleamed. 
"  I  don't  believe  she  loves  it  a  bit." 

"  Oh  yes,  she  does,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  with  a 
sigh  ;  "  yes,  she  does — in  her  way.  And,  Rachel,  the 
baby  may  save  her,  you  know.  Yes,  I  believe  she 
loves  it." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Rachel  King,  stoutly  ;  "  not  if  this 
last  story  of  her  *  keeping  company  '  with  somebody 
is  true.  Why  doesn't  she  devote  herself  to  the 
baby  ?" 

Rachel  was  sitting  out  in  the  garden  with  Dr. 
Lavendar  ;  he  had  been  smoking  and  watching  the 
bees,  and  she  had  dropped  in  to  gossip  awhile.  She 
was  a  large,  maternal-looking  woman  of  thirty-five. 
Silent  and  placid,  with  soft,  light-brown  hair  parted 
in  the  middle  and  drawn  smoothly  down  and  back 
from  a  wide  forehead,  under  which  shone  mild  and 
brooding  gray  eyes — the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  was 
essentially,  and  always,  and  deeply,  a  mother  ;  that 
look  that  can  only  come  from  experience. 

But  what  had  she  mothered  in  the  last  nineteen 
years  ! 

When  Rachel  was  sixteen  years  old,  Mrs.  King  fell 
ill ;  it  was  one  of  those  illnesses  from  which  we  turn 
away  our  eyes,  shuddering  and  humbled.  Oh,  our 
poor  human  nature  !  the  pity  of  it,  the  shame  of  it, 
yet  the  helplessness  and  innocence  of  it  !  Rachel's 
mother  gradually  but  swiftly  came  to  be  a  child — in 

146 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

everything  but  years.  She  had  lost  a  baby,  and  the 
grief  had  shaken  the  foundations  of  life.  They  first 
suspected  how  things  were  with  the  poor  mind  by 
the  way  she  pored  over  the  little  clothes  the  dead 
child  had  worn,  folding  them  and  unfolding  them, 
and  talking  to  them,  with  little  foolish  laughter.  It 
was  then  that  some  one  whispered  to  some  one  else 
that  Ellen  King  was  not  herself.  So  it  went  on, 
little  by  little — at  first  knowing,  and  rebelling  with 
horror  and  with  disgust  ;  then,  after  a  while,  pas 
sively,  she  sank  down  into  the  bog  of  the  merely  an 
imal.  When  Rachel  was  eighteen  the  last  glimmer 
of  the  woman  died  out ;  there  was  left  an  eating, 
breathing,  whimpering  thing.  She  had  her  doll  by 
that  time,  and  Rachel  used  to  tuck  a  bib  under  the 
poor  shaking  chin  and  feed  her,  and  push  down  the 
naughty  hands  that  tried  to  grasp  the  spoon,  and 
wipe  the  milky  lips,  and  kiss  her,  and — honor  her. 
This  was  her  baby,  her  duty,  her  passionately  tender 
occupation  —  but  it  was  her  mother;  and  Rachel 
King's  days  ought  to  be  long  in  the  land  !  When 
she  was  about  twenty-one  a  lover  appeared,  but  she 
sent  him  away.  "  I  can't  leave  mother.  Father 
can't  take  care  of  her,  you  know,  and  Oscar  is  away  ; 
and  Willy  will  be  getting  married  some  day.  But 
it  wouldn't  be  right  that  you  should  have  to  live 
with  her,"  she  said,  wistfully.  The  lover  protested  ; 
but  she  heard  the  weak  note  behind  the  affectionate 
words,  and  after  that  she  was  quite  firm.  "  No  ;  it 
can't' be.  I  see  that  it  couldn't  possibly  be."  When 
he  had  gone,  she  went  up  to  her  mother's  room  and 
put  her  arms  around  her,  and  hid  her  eyes  on  hef 
breast.  "  Oh,  mother,  mother  !"  she  said,  "  can't  you 
speak  to  me — just  once  ?" 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Mrs.  King  stroked  the  soft  straight  hair  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  plucked  at  it  angrily,  and  cried  and 
screamed,  and  said  she  wanted  her  dolly.  .  .  .  That 
had  been  Rachel's  life  for  nineteen  years  ;  for  Mrs. 
King  had  lived,  and  lived,  and  lived.  All  around 
her  in  the  anxious,  heavy-laden  world  sweet  and 
buoyant  and  vital  souls  were  sucked  down  into 
death  ;  but  the  imbecile  old  woman  went  on  living. 
Mr.  King  died  in  the  early  part  of  his  wife's  illness  ; 
and  about  eight  years  before  the  end  came,  William, 
the  only  son  who  lived  at  home,  married,  and  went 
to  a  house  of  his  own.  He  married  a  Mercer  girl, 
who  commended  herself  to  him  by  her  great  good 
sense.  Old  Chester  was  not  quite  pleased  that  Willy 
should  leave  his  mother  and  Rachel  all  alone,  though 
it  said,  approvingly,  that  Martha  Hayes  would  make 
the  doctor  a  good  wife.  But  what  could  the  young 
man  do  ?  The  sensible  Mercer  girl  said,  frankly, 
that  she  was  very  fond  of  Willy,  but  she  simply 
iv  on  Id  not  live  in  the  same  house  with  his  mother. 
Indeed,  such  was  her  Mercer  sense  (it  certainly  was 
not  of  Old  Chester)  that  she  said,  during  the  latter 
part  of  her  engagement,  that  she  did  not  think  it 
was  quite  prudent  for  a  young  married  lady  to  live 
in  the  same  house  with  such  a  frightful  old  creature  ! 

So  Rachel  was  left  all  alone  with  her  child.  It  was 
a  busy  life,  in  its  constant  attendance  ;  yet  some 
how  it  is  the  busy  people  who  can  always  do  a  little 
more.  If  there  was  sickness  in  a  neighbor's  family, 
Rachel  King  took  possession  in  a  tranquil,  sensible 
way ;  when  there  was  death,  her  large,  gentle  hands 
were  ready  with  those  sacred  touches  that  are  so 
often  left  to  hirelings  ;  when  there  was  sorrow,  her 
soft  breast  was  a  most  comforting  pillow.  So  year 

148 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

by  year  went  by,  until  the  final  flicker  of  her  moth 
er's  life  dropped  into  mere  breathing — into  silence 
— into  death.  And  year  by  year  the  lines  of  mater 
nity  deepened  in  the  daughter's  face,  until  she  was 
all  mother. 

Then,  she  was  childless. 

Oh,  after  such  shame,  how  humanity  raises  itself 
in  glorious  death  !  Even  Rachel,  mourning  and  be 
wildered  by  the  loss  of  occupation,  felt  it  dumbly — 
the  dignity,  the  mercy,  the  graciousness,  of  death  ! 
And  to  the  poor  soul,  fettered  in  gross  flesh,  stum 
bling,  stifling,  struggling,  what  must  it  have  been 
to  emerge  into  the  clean  spaces  of  the  stars  ! 

After  that,  of  course,  Rachel  could  live  her  own 
life.  But  there  was  no  question  of  a  lover  now  ;  he 
had  a  wife  and  five  children  in  another  State.  She 
could  not  go  and  live  with  Willy  ;  her  sensible  sis 
ter-in-law  (against  this  day)  had  for  years  been  say 
ing  how  foolish  it  was  to  live  in  other  people's  fami 
lies  ;  and  Rachel  had  taken  the  hint.  There  were 
no  nephews  and  nieces  to  love — nobody,  indeed,  to 
whom  she  was  a  necessity.  Of  all  the  bitter  and 
heavy  things  in  this  sorry  old  world,  the  not  being 
necessary  is  the  bitterest  and  heaviest.  With  a  deep, 
simple  nature,  a  nature  of  brooding  love,  Rachel 
King  had  nothing  in  her  life  but  the  crumbs  that 
fell  from  richer  tables:  the  friendly  acceptance  of 
those  services  she  was  so  happy  to  give.  But  she 
had  nothing  of  her  very  own. 

"  To  think  that  that  creature  has  a  baby  !"  she  said. 
"  Well,  well ;  we'll  hope  it  will  save  her,"  Dr.  Lav- 
endar  repeated. 

"  But  think  of  the  baby,"  Rachel  insisted.    "  What 
149 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

kind  of  a  bringing-up  will  it  have  ?"  She  sighed  as 
she  spoke,  not  knowing  that  the  necessity  of  her  own 
empty  arms  and  wide  lap  and  deep  soft  bosom  dic 
tated  the  words. 

"  Well,  Rachel,  if  we  took  the  infants  away  from 
all  the  unworthy  mothers,  we'd  have  a  pretty  large 
orphan-asylum,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  chuckling,  "and 
it  wouldn't  be  only  the  Mary  Deans  who  would  have 
to  give  'em  up,  either.  No,  no  ;  I  believe  the  Lord 
understands  this  matter  better  than  we  do.  The 
baby  will  make  a  woman  of  Mary  yet !" 

"  Suppose  she  teaches  it  to  tell  lies  ?"  Rachel  King 
suggested. 

"  Ho  !  Suppose  it  teaches  her  to  tell  the  truth  ?" 
he  demanded.  "  No,  Rachel.  That  baby  is  a  mis 
sionary;  a  'domestic  missionary,'  as  you  might  say. 
I've  great  hopes  for  Mary — great  hopes." 


Ill 

But  Dr.  Lavendar's  hopes  were  greatly  tried.  In 
spite  of  the  saving  grace  of  a  baby,  bad  reports  came 
from  the  family  for  whom  Mary  Dean  worked — she 
was  an  inveterate  liar  ;  she  was  untidy,  and  coarse 
in  mind  and  body;  she  was  dishonest — not  in  any 
large  way,  but  rather  in  small  meannesses. 

"The  only  good  thing  about  her  is  she  is  fond  of 
that  blessed  baby,"  her  exasperated  mistress  said 
once.  "  She  kisses  it  sometimes  as  if  she  were  pos 
sessed.  But  then,  again,  she'll  slap  it  real  hard  if  it 
slops  its  dress,  or,  maybe,  pulls  her  hair  when  it's 
playing.  It's  a  great  baby  to  play,"  the  good  wom 
an  said,  softening  as  she  spoke. 

150 


THE    CHILD' vS    MOTHER 

However,  Dr.  Lavendar  kept  on  hoping.  Then 
came  a  time  when  he  could  hope  no  longer.  It  was 
one  night  in  August  —  his  Mary's  night  out,  as  it 
chanced.  Dr.  Lavendar  came  home  from  Wednes 
day  evening  lecture,  plodding  along  in  the  darkness, 
a  lantern  swinging  in  one  hand  and  his  stick  in  the 
other.  He  was  humming  over  to  himself,  with 
husky  clearings  of  his  voice  at  the  end  of  each 
line,  the  last  hymn  : 

"  The  spa — cious  fir — mament  o-on  hi-gh, 
And  a-all  the  blue — ethereal  sky — ' 

Then  he  fumbled  for  his  latch-key  and  came  up  to 
his  own  door-step,  where  was  lying  a  little  heap  that 
moved  and  said,  "Goo — oo — oo." 

Dr.  Lavendar  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  felt 
very  cold.  Then  he  stooped  down  and  held  the  lan 
tern  over  the  baby's  face.  At  that  there  was  an  un 
mistakable  wail  of  fright — that  sharp  " A-a-ack  /" 
that  pierces  the  unaccustomed  ear  with  such  curious 
dismay.  Fathers  and  mothers  bear  this  cry  with 
equanimity,  and  even  seem  to  find  it  a  cause  for 
pride,  but  to  the  unbabied  adult  it  is  so  piercing 
and  so  unpleasant  that  it  almost  seems  as  though 
there  was  something  to  be  said  for  Herod.  Not  that 
Dr.  Lavendar  had  any  such  inhuman  thoughts  ;  he 
lifted  the  baby  up  and  carried  it  into  the  study, 
where  he  put  it  down  in  his  arm-chair,  and  stum 
bled  about  for  matches  to  light  the  lamp.  In  his 
anxiety  he  did  not  even  take  off  his  flapping  felt 
hat,  which  encircled  his  face  like  a  black  nimbus. 
Holding  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  he  came  and  stood 
over  the  bundle  in  his  chair  ;  the  baby  stopped  cry 
ing  and  sucked  in  its  lower  lip,  and  returned  his 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

gaze.  It  was  Mary's  child.  He  recognized  it  at 
once,  and  did  not  need  the  dirty  scrap  of  paper 
pinned  on  its  breast : 

"  Mr.  Lavendar  i  cant  do  for  baby  no  longer  it  cries  nights 
and  do  keep  me  awake  and  i  got  to  do  my  work  next  day  all 
the  same  and  i  cant  stand  it  no  longer  and  i  cant  do  for  it 
no  longer  i  am  sorrie  i  pittie  poor  baby  to  be  left  alone  and 
i  love  my  baby  just  as  much  as  if  i  was  married  but  i  have 
to  put  it  away  i  will  never  come  back  any  more  so  get  it  a 
home  and  please  excuse  no  more  at  present  from  your  friend 
Miss  Mary  Dean  P  S  i  have  decided  to  name  it  Evelina." 

He  read  it,  and  then  he  looked  at  the  baby  blink 
ing  at  the  lamp-light,  in  his  arm-chair.  "  If  you'll 
just  wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  in  an  agitated  voice, 
"  I'll— I'll  get  a  woman  !" 

The  baby  yawned  ;  he  saw  the  roof  of  its  small 
pink  mouth,  like  a  kitten's.  "  I'll  return  immediate 
ly,"  he  assured  it  ;  and  hurried,  almost  running,  out 
to  the  kitchen.  But  his  maid-servant  was  not  there. 
"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  he  said.  "  Very  likely  it  ought 
to  be  fed,  or  something.  Perhaps  it  wants  to  be 
held.  I'll  get  Rachel." 

It  was  easy  to  get  Rachel  King,  as  she  lived  but  a 
stone's-throw  away  ;  she  was  locking  her  front  door 
when,  half-way  down  the  street,  he  called  her  and 
waved  his  lantern  ;  and  Rachel,  in  her  placid  mind, 
foresaw  a  sudden  illness  somewhere,  and  a  night's 
watching  before  her.  His  breathless  explanation 
sent  her  hurrying,  faster  than  he  could  walk,  back  to 
the  parsonage.  When  he  got  there  she  had  the  baby 
on  her  knee,  and  was  taking  off  the  faded  shawl  that 
the  mother  had  wrapped  around  it,  and  mumbling 
her  lips  over  the  little  dimpled  arm. 

152 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

"  There's  a  pin  somewhere  that  has  scratched  her," 
she  said.  "There,  you  little  darling.  Oh,  dear  me, 
Dr.  Lavendar,  that  shawl  is  so  dirty  !  And  look  at 
this  scratch  on  her  little  hand.  There — there — there. 
Why,  her  little  feet  are  as  cold  as  stones  !"  She 
gathered  the  small  feet  into  her  hand,  and  cuddled 
the  child  up  against  her  breast.  "  I  feel  her  shiver  !" 
she  said,  angrily.  "  I  believe  that  wretched  girl  has 
given  her  her  death  of  cold  leaving  her  on  that 
stone  step.  There,  dear  ;  there — there.  Dear  baby, 
bless  your  little  heart  !  She  says  she  'was  frightened 
all  alone  in  the  dark  ;  frightened  'most  to  death/  she 
says.  Yes,  darling,  yes.  '  I  was  scared,'  she  says, 
'and  I  was  drefful  cold.'  There,  now,  are  your  little 
feet  warm  ?" 

Dr.  Lavendar  stood  looking  down  at  her,  greatly 
relieved. 

"  But  what  am  I  going  to  do  with  it  to-night  ?"  he 
said,  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  I  am  going  to  take  her  home,  sir.  Dr.  Laven 
dar,  give  her  to  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  Rachel,  I  hope  the  mother  will  come 
back,  you  know.  And,  in  fact,  I  suppose  our  first 
duty  is  to  get  hold  of  her  and  make  her  take  it." 

"What  !"  she  interrupted,  "  when  she  deserted  her? 
Give  a  child  back  to  such  a  mother  ?  No  !  she  doesn't 
deserve  her  !" 

"  But,  perhaps,"  he  ventured,  "  the  work  really  was 
too  hard  ?  There's  her  letter.  You  see  what  she 
says.  I  certainly  ought  to  try  to  get  a  different  kind 
of  place  for  her,  where  she  won't  have  so  much  to 
do.  It  is  hard  to  be  kept  awake  at  night  and  then 
have  to  work,  you  know.  We  must  try  to  make  it 
possible  for  her  to  keep  her  child,  poor  girl." 
"  J53 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Dr.  Lavendar,  any  woman  who  could  write  such 
a  letter  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  have  a  child." 
Rachel  said.  "  But  I  don't  believe  we'll  ever  hear 
from  her  again.  Anyhow,  I'm  going  to  take  this 
precious  baby  home  with  me  !  Little  darling  !  do 
you  want  to  come  home  and  have  some  hot  milk, 
and  go  sleepy  ?  Well,  you  shall  ! — there,  there, 
there  !" 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  her  home,  my  dear,  I  wish 
you  would,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  "  and  to-morrow  we 
can  decide  what  we  ought  to  do." 

Rachel  smiled,  her  eyes  narrowing  a  little,  but  she 
said  nothing.  She  wrapped  the  child  up  in  her  skirt, 
"  I  won't  have  that  shawl  touch  her,"  she  said,  de 
cidedly. 

"  Won't  it  cry  if  you  take  it  out  in  the  dark  ?"  Dr. 
Lavendar  inquired,  meekly. 

Rachel  laughed. 

"  *  It ' !"  she  said.     "  She  won't  cry  in  my  arms." 

That  night  was  a  wonderful  one  to  Rachel  King. 
The  washing  of  the  soft,  uncared-for  baby  flesh  ;  the 
feeding  of  the  warmed  and  comforted  little  body  ; 
then  the  putting  the  child  to  sleep,  sitting  in  a  low 
chair,  and  rocking  slowly  back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth,  crooning,  crooning,  crooning,  her  shadow  dip 
ping  and  rising  across  the  ceiling  of  the  faintly 
lighted  room.  When  the  baby  was  asleep  Rachel 
looked  over  the  rough,  grimy  clothing,  shaking  her 
head,  and  touching  the  little  petticoats  with  disgusted 
fingers. 

"  Ach — dirty  !"  she  said.  "  They  sha'n't  touch  her 
again  ;  she's  as  clean  as  a  flower  now." 

And  then  she  took  her  lamp  and  went  up  through 
the  silent  house  to  the  garret.  Whenever  Rachel 

154 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

came  up  here  under  the  rafters  of  the  old  house,  she 
thought  what  a  place  it  would  be  for  children  to  play 
on  rainy  days.  Well,  now,  perhaps  a  little  child 
should  play  here  ;  a  little  girl  might  use  that  old 
doll-house  set  back  against  the  big  brick  chimney. 
Rachel's  breath  quickened  as  this  thought  leaped  up 
in  her  heart.  She  put  the  lamp  down  on  a  chest,  and, 
from  under  the  eaves,  pulled  out  an  old  horse-hair 
trunk  ;  when  she  opened  it  a  scent  of  dried  roses  and 
sweet  clover  came  from  the  clean  old  baby  linen  that 
had  been  lying  there  some  twenty  years.  Poor  Mrs. 
King,  staggering  from  reason  to  imbecility,  had  put 
the  little  dothes  away  ;  and  every  spring,  for  her 
sake,  Rachel  took  them  out,  and  aired  them,  and"  put 
them  back  again. 

On  top  of  the  baby  clothes  lay  a  battered  old  doll ; 
when  she  lifted  it  Rachel  drew  in  her  breath  as 
though  something  hurt  her.  Then  she  began  to  sort 
out  the  things  she  needed  for  the  little  rosy  child  of 
dishonor  and  sin.  The  lamp  flickered  in  the  draught 
from  the  open  door,  and  cast  her  great  shadow  across 
the  ceiling  as,  gently,  she  took  up  one  little  garment 
after  another.  As  she  shook  out  the  knitted  shirts 
and  brushed  some  rose  leaves  from  the  folds  of  the 
yellowing  slips,  a  sense  of  providing  for  her  own 
came  warmly  to  her  breast.  Her  baby  !  She  took 
her  lamp  and  went  down  -  stairs  again,  the  pile  of 
clothing  on  her  arm. 

The  baby  slept,  warm  and  quiet,  on  Rachel's  bed  ; 
she  bent  over  it  to  feel  its  soft  breath  on  her  cheek  ; 
then  she  gathered  its  feet  into  her  hand  to  be  sure 
that  they  were  warm,  and  lifted  the  arm  which  was 
thrown  up  over  its  head  and  put  it  under  the  cover. 
It  seemed  as  though  she  could  not  take  her  eyes 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

away  from  the  child,  even  that  she  might  undress 
and  lie  down  beside  it.  And  when  she  did  it  was  not 
to  sleep ;  a  dozen  times  she  raised  herself  on  her 
elbow  to  look  down  at  the  little  figure  beside  her 
and  listen  for  its  breathing,  and  lift  its  small  relaxed 
hand  to  her  lips.  Sometimes  she  thought  of  the  wom 
an  who  had  deserted  it  :  but  never  as  if  any  of  her 
shame  were  connected  with  the  child's  personality. 
Only  with  indignation — and  thankfulness  ! 

It  was  a  night  of  birth  to  this  childless  woman. 

In  those  first  days  she  did  not  ask  Dr.  Lavendar 
whether  he  was  taking  any  steps  to  find  the  baby's 
mother,  but  she  lived  breathlessly.  "  I'll  biiy  her,  if 
that  creature  comes  back,"  she  said  to  herself,  over 
and  over.  But  the  creature  did  not  come  back, 
though  Dr.  Lavendar  tried  his  best  to  find  some  trace 
of  her,  to  urge  upon  her  the  duty  of  caring  for  her 
child.  And  after  a  while  Rachel's  plan  and  plea 
seemed  to  the  old  minister  the  only  way  out  of  the 
matter  :  Rachel  wanted  the  baby  ;  and  its  own 
mother  evidently  did  not  ;  so  it  had  best  remain  with 
Rachel.  Certainly  for  the  child  there  could  be  no 
question  as  to  which  lot  in  life  was  best  for  it. 

But  it  was  several  months  before  Rachel  King  felt 
assured  possession.  "The  mother  may  come  back 
for  it,"  Dr.  Lavendar  reminded  her  many  times,  "so 
don't  let's  be  in  a  hurry."  But  in  the  end  it  was  set 
tled  as  Rachel  wished.  The  mother  drifted  off  into 
the  world  ;  and  the  little  waif,  which  had  drifted  into 
a  home,  grew  into  a  flowerlike  child,  pretty  and  happy 
and  good. 


i 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 


IV 

It  was  a  most  peaceable  Old  Chester  childhood  that 
came  to  little  Anna,  for  Rachel  preserved  the  tradi 
tions  of  the  town  in  bringing  her  up — and  that 
meant  love  and  obedience,  and  the  sweet,  attendant 
grace  of  reverence,  of  which,  alas,  childhood  is  so 
often  robbed  in  these  emancipated  days.  In  Old 
Chester  the  bringing  up  of  their  children  occupied 
the  women  in  a  way  at  once  religious  and  intel 
lectual.  Practically  they  had  no  other  interest ;  in 
dividualism  and  the  sense  of  social  responsibility, 
those  two  characteristics  of  the  modern  woman,  were 
not  even  guessed  at — indeed,  they  would  have  been 
thought  exceedingly  unladylike.  But  the  care  of 
the  individual  child  and  the  sense  of  responsibility 
for  its  morals  made  the  interest  and  excitement  and 
occupation  of  the  mothers'  lives.  The  great  fear  was 
that  children  might  be  "spoiled";  hence  it  was  a 
subject  for  prayer  that  no  sinful  human  instinct,  no 
mere  maternal  feeling,  should  be  allowed  to  interfere 
with  discipline.  Infants  were  punished,  children 
were  trained,  youth  was  admonished,  with  religious 
devotion.  It  was  a  matter  of  pious  pride  to  Old 
Chester  that  Mrs.  Dale's  first  baby  had  cried  himself 
into  a  spasm  on  being  forced  to  drink  the  skin  on 
scalded  milk.  It  was  perhaps  unfortunate  that  Mrs. 
Dale  should  have  tried  to  make  the  child  take  the 
crinkling  scum  in  the  first  place  ;  but  having  tried, 
having  called  in  several  serious  mothers  to  advise  and 
wrestle  with  the  ten  months'  baby,  having  forced  tea 
spoons  between  small,  wet  lips,  and  held  little  fight 
ing,  struggling  hands,  it  was  imperative  that  she 

157 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

should  succeed.  She  succeeded.  To  be  sure,  later  on, 
young  Eben  Dale  quarrelled  with  his  mother  and 
sowed  enough  wild  oats  to  feed  the  Augean  stables ; 
but  he  reformed  in  time  to  die  at  thirty  in  the  odor  of 
sanctity — his  conversion  being,  Mrs.  Dale  believed, 
due  to  that  rigid  discipline  of  his  youth  (and  the 
mercy  of  God).  Old  Chester  children  were  prayed 
for,  and  agonized  over,  and  sent  supperless  to  bed, 
with  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  to  be  committed  to 
memory  by  the  light  of  one  uncertain  candle  shining 
through  their  hungry  tears.  And  most  of  them  are 
grateful  for  it  now. 

As  for  Rachel  King,  she  observed  these  traditions 
in  the  way  in  which  she  cared  for  Anna  ;  but  it  was 
always  with  tenderness.  And  Anna  was  a  dear  and 
happy  little  child.  She  never  knew  that  her  aunt,  as 
she  called  Rachel,  thought,  and  planned,  and  fairly 
lived  in  her  life.  It  would  have  been  contrary  to 
Rachel's  principles  to  allow  the  child  to  feel  herself 
important  ;  but  nothing  escaped  the  kind  eyes,  the 
far-seeing  love,  that  punished  and  praised  with 
that  calm  justice  which  children  so  keenly  appre 
ciate.  The  little  girl's  physical  well-being  was  of 
absorbing  interest  to  Rachel,  but  her  spiritual  well- 
being  was  a  religion  to  the  quiet,  matter  -  of  -  fact 
woman,  who  did  not  look  anymore  capable  of  spirit 
ual  passion  than  did  some  gentle,  ruminative  cow 
lying  under  a  big  tree  in  a  sunny  meadow.  Anna's 
possible  inheritance  was  a  horror  to  Rachel,  and  when 
the  child  told  her  first  lie  her  foster-mother  was 
nearly  sick  with  dismay  and  anxiety.  It  was  only 
one  of  the  romancing  lies  as  common  to  childhood  as 
playing.  Anna  recited  a  long  tale  of  how  she  went 
to  Dr.  Lavendar's  and  rung  the  bell,  and  then  tried 

158 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

to  reach  up  to  the  knocker,  and  tumbled  down,  and 
saw  a  large  toad  looking  at  her  from  beside  the  front 
steps,  and  how  she  was  so  frightened  she  ran  every 
step  of  the  way  home.  Rachel,  when  she  found  this 
was  pure  invention,  nearly  broke  her  heart.  Alarmed 
and  stern,  she  carried  the  story  to  Dr.  Lavendar, 
who  chuckled  over  it,  and  blinked  his  eyes,  and  said: 

"  And  she  never  left  the  yard,  you  say,  the  whole 
afternoon  ?  Well,  well  !  what  an  imagination  !" 

"  But,  Dr.  Lavendar,  it  was  a  lie,"  Rachel  said, 
staring  at  him  with  dismay. 

"  My  dear,  you  can't  say  a  child  of  four  is  a  liar. 
Did  you  mean  to  punish  her  ?" 

Rachel  nodded,  and  sighed. 

"  Don't  you  do  it !  Laugh  at  her.  That's  all  she 
needs.  Tell  her  it's  foolish  to  say  things  happened 
that  didn't  happen.  Time  enough  to  punish  her 
when  she  does  it  to  gain  an  end.  Don't  you  see  it 
was  a  tale  to  the  child  ?" 

"  But  her — the  woman  who  deserted  her  lied  so  !" 

u  Her  mother  ?" 

Rachel  winced.     "  Yes,  that—that  woman." 

"  That's  true  ;  poor  Mary  didn't  seem  able  to  tell 
the  truth.  Well,  I  suppose  it's  natural  for  you, 
Rachel,  to  be  afraid  of  the  inheritance  from  her 
earthly  mother  ;  but  mind  you  don't  forget  her  in 
heritance  from  her  Heavenly  Father,  my  dear." 

Rachel  bent  her  head,  solemnly,  listening  and 
comforte^l. 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me  !"  Dr.  Lavendar  ruminated. 
"  How  He  has  provided  for  one  of  the  least  of  His 
little  ones  :  the  deserted  child  of  a  woman  who  was 
a  sinner  !  Rachel,  I  wonder  where  she  is.  Suppose 
she  were  to  come  back  ?" 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Rachel  King  had  gotten  up  to  go,  comforted  and 
smiling,  though  the  tears  were  near  the  surface  ; 
her  face  hardened  instantly.  "  She  won't  come 
back  ;  if  she  did,  it  would  be  nothing  to  me." 

"  She  might  want  to  know  about  the  child — where 
she  is,  and  all  that." 

"You  wouldn't  tell  her?"  Rachel  said,  with  a 
gasp. 

Dr.  Lavendar  put  his  pipe  down,  and  stuck  out 
his  lips  in  a  way  he  had  when  he  was  puzzled.  "  I've 
never  spoken  of  it  to  you,  Rachel,  but  I've  wondered 
about  it.  Not  that  I  think  we'll  ever  hear  from  her, 
poor  creature — " 

"  *  Poor  '  creature  ?"  Rachel  interrupted,  violently. 
"  Lost  creature  !  wretch  !  fiend  !"  It  was  like  the 
sudden  show  of  teeth  and  claws  the  way  in  which 
the  face  of  this  slow,  mild  woman  flamed  with  rage. 
"  I  hope  she's  dead  !" 

Dr.  Lavendar  looked  up  at  her,  open-mouthed. 

"Well,  now,  Rachel,  aren't  you  a  little — harsh, 
maybe?  As  for  Anna,  she  is  that  poor  sinner's 
child—" 

"  No,  no  !"  Rachel  King  broke  in.  "  No,  Dr.  Lav 
endar,  I  can't  hear  you  say  that ;  I  can't !  She  is 
my  child." 

"  Now,  my  dear,  you  know  that  is  really  foolish," 
he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "  That  girl  who  gave  her 
birth  is  her  mother  ;  ye  can't  get  around  that, 
Rachel." 

"That  —  woman,  is  only  the  mother  of  — of  her 
body,"  Rachel  King  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  am  her 
mother,  Dr.  Lavendar.  Anna  is  mine.  No  ;  that — 
creature  will  never  come  back  ;  but  if  she  did,  it 
would  make  no  difference  ;  it  would  make  no  more 

160 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

difference  to  me  than  it  would  to  Mrs.  Wright  and 
her  Lydia,  or — or  any  mother.  My  child  is  mine." 

"  I  wonder  what  the  law  would  say  ?"  Dr.  Laven- 
dar  ventured,  meekly. 

"  The  law  ?"  Rachel  said.  "  What  do  I  care  for  the 
law  ?  That's  man's  word.  God  gave  me  that  child, 
and  only  God  shall  take  her  from  me  !" 

"  But,  Rachel,"  he  protested,  "  a  mother  has  a  nat 
ural  right  ;  if  she  wanted  her  child  (supposing  she 
could  feed  it  and  take  proper  care  of  it),  I  think  any 
body  would  agree  that  she  ought  to  have  it." 

Rachel  King  turned  on  him,  panting ;  her  hands 
were  trembling,  and  her  large  face  a  dull,  angry  red. 
"  Is  food  the  only  thing  she  needs,  Dr.  Lavendar  ?  I 
would  rather  Anna  was  dead,  I  would  sooner  kill  her 
with  my  own  hands,  than  have  her  go  to  that — 
creature  !"  Without  another  word  she  turned  and 
walked  away  from  him. 

As  for  Dr.  Lavendar,  he  sat  still,  perfectly  con 
founded  by  her  violence. 

"  How  people  do  surprise  you  !"  he  said  to  himself 
at  last.  "Well,  it  appears  Solomon  knew  what  he 
was  talking  about.  It  was  the  real  mother  who  said, 
'  in  no  wise  slay  it.'  Curious  how  nature  can  always 
be  relied  on  to  tell  the  truth.  But  how  Rachel  did 
surprise  me  !" 

However,  Rachel  did  not  surprise  him  in  this  way 
again  ;  indeed,  though  she  came  to  see  him  on  this 
matter  or  on  that,  things  were  not  quite  the  same 
between  them.  A  deep  resentment  and  distrust 
grew  up  in  her  mind.  Dr.  Lavendar  had,  to  her 
way  of  thinking,  showed  an  unfriendly  and  unfeel 
ing  disposition  which  she  had  never  suspected  in 
him.  She  did  not  speak  of  this  resentment,  of 

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OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

course ;  but  it  burned  and  smouldered,  and  never 
quite  went  out.  The  anger  of  slow,  mild,  loving 
people  has  a  lasting  quality  that  mere  bad-tempered 
folk  cannot  understand.  Rachel  used  to  reproach 
herself  for  the  hardness  of  her  heart,  and  say  that 
she  must  remember  that  Dr.  Lavendar  was  getting 
old,  and  could  not  understand  things — "  or  else  he 
would  know  that  God  gave  Anna  to  me,"  she  would 
say,  over  and  over ;  her  simple  creed  permitting  the 
idea  that  her  Creator  had  made  a  depraved  mother 
commit  the  sin  of  abandoning  her  child  so  that  an 
other  woman  might  have  a  child  to  love  and  care 
for.  But  she  never  again  let  the  maternal  passion 
burst  out  in  such  fierce  words  of  possession. 

Dr.  Lavendar,  however,  pondered  those  words  in 
his  heart.  He  used  to  sit  blinking  at  the  fire,  and 
rubbing  Danny's  ears,  and  thinking  about  it :  after 
all,  to  whom  did  Anna  really  belong?  Over  and 
over  he  discussed  it  with  himself,  but  only  as  an  ab 
stract  proposition  that  interested  him  as  any  philo 
sophical,  impersonal  question  might.  The  first  moth 
er  was  gone,  having  resigned  the  baby  to  the  chance 
of  kindness  ;  the  second  mother,  so  to  speak,  had 
taken  her  empty  place,  and  was  doing  her  neglected 
duty  ;  thanks  to  her,  little  Anna  was  being  brought 
up  as  a  member  of  Christ,  the  child  of  God,  and  an 
inheritor  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  But  to  whom 
did  she  really  belong  ? 

He  pottered  about  over  this  question  with  the 
same  mild  intellectual  enjoyment  with  which  in  his 
salad  days  he  had  discussed  (and  disposed  of)  the 
errors  of  the  Socinians  and  the  Pelagians.  And  by- 
and-by  he  made  up  his  mind,  and  decided,  in  his  dog 
matic  way,  that  "  there  was  no  question  about  it  "  : 

162 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

By  the  inalienable  claim  of  nature  Anna  belonged 
to  the  woman  who  had  brought  her  into  the  world. 

So  little  Anna  grew  into  a  pleasant  child.  She 
was  looked  after  a  little  more  strictly  than  other 
children,  and  perhaps  punished  more  ;  but  it  seemed 
as  though  she  were  loved  more  too.  She  had  a  very 
happy  childhood  :  sewing  on  a  hassock  at  Rachel's 
feet,  her  hair  parted  smoothly  over  her  round,  pure 
forehead,  and  her  bright  eyes  eager  as  any  other 
child's  to  be  through  with  her  task  and  get  out  to 
play  ;  romping  in  the  garden  with  other  little  girls  ; 
playing  with  her  doll  — an  old  doll  given  her  by 
Rachel,  whose  eyes,  when  she  put  it  into  Anna's 
hands,  were  wet,  and  who  stroked  the  dolly's  head 
as  if  she  loved  it  ;  learning  to  read  at  Rachel's  knee 
out  of  a  brown  book  with  two  fat  gilt  cherubs  on  the 
cover,  called  Reading  Without  Tears.  However, 
Anna's  childhood  had  its  tears,  fortunately.  Ra 
chel's  love  was  not  of  that  poor  fibre  that  spares  the 
wholesome  salt  of  tears  in  the  bread  of  life.  So 
little  Anna  laughed  and  cried  and  played,  and  grew 
into  a  dear,  good  child. 

And  when  she  was  ten  years  old,  all  this  was 
weighed  in  the  balance  against  the  "  inalienable 
claim  of  nature." 


It  was  on  Saturday,  and  the  children  were  strag 
gling  up  the  street  to  the  rectory  for  their  catechism 
and  collect  class.  Dr.  Lavendar  had  had  this  class 
for  forty  years  ;  the  preceding  generation  had  sat  on 
the  little  hard  benches  in  the  dining  -  room,  and 

.163 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

learned  that  a  collect  was  divided  into  three  parts, 
the  invocation,  the  petition,  and  the  conclusion,  just 
as  this  generation  was  learning  it.  Fathers  and 
mothers,  thirty  years  before,  had  recited  in  concert 
that  their  sponsors  in  baptism  had  renounced  for 
them  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  the  pomps  and 
vanities  of  this  wicked  world,  and  all  the  sinful  lusts 
of  the  flesh  ;  and  now  they  were  permitting  their 
children  to  be  reminded,  once  a  week,  that  a  like 
futile  renunciation  had  been  made  for  them. 

On  this  particular  Saturday  it  was  raining,  and 
was  cold  and  blustery.  But  Old  Chester  children 
were  brought  up  to  believe  that  they  were  neither 
sugar  nor  salt ;  and  so,  when  it  was  time  to  start, 
they  trudged  along  through  the  rain  and  mud  to 
the  rectory.  They  were  a  sturdy,  rosy  set,  very  shy, 
quite  clumsy,  and  stupidly,  stolidly  silent — except 
when  they  were  alone  ;  then  they  chattered  like 
sparrows.  The  class  met  in  the  dining-room,  the 
table  being  pushed  over  into  one  corner,  and  some 
benches  placed  in  two  rows  in  front  of  a  blackboard. 
There  was  always  a  dish  of  apples  on  a  side-table 
(or  jumbles,  if  it  was  summer);  and  the  five  or  six 
boys  and  seven  or  eight  girls  kept  an  eye  on  it,  to 
cheer  them  through  the  half-hour  of  the  old  minis 
ter's  talk.  Dear  me  !  how  that  dish  kept  up  a  sink 
ing  heart  when  its  owner  was  asked  (no  one  ever 
knew  where  the  lightning  was  going  to  strike,  so 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  cramming  beforehand), 
"What  is  tJiy  duty  toivards  thy  neighbor?"  When 
collect  class  was  over,  the  apples  or  jumbles  were 
handed  around,  and  each  child  took  one,  and  said, 
"Thank  you,  sir."  And  then  Danny  was  brought  in 
and  put  through  his  tricks;  and  sometimes,  if  every- 

164 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

thing  had  gone  very  well,  and  "  What  desirest  thou 
of  God  in  this  prayer?"  and  "What  is  thy  duty  to 
thy  neighbor  ?"  had  been  answered  without  a  mis 
take,  and  Dr.  Lavendar  was  especially  good-natured, 
they  were  taken  into  the  study  and  shown  the  lathe, 
and  the  little  boxes  of  garnets  and  topazes  and 
amethysts  ;  and  perhaps  —  oh,  very  rarely,  maybe 
three  times  a  year  —  one  boy  and  one  girl  were 
chosen,  turn  about,  to  put  a  foot  upon  the  treadle 
and  start  the  lathe.  And  then  how  the  collect  class 
stood  about,  gaping  with  interest  and  awe  ! 

This  class  met  at  two,  and  was  such  an  institu 
tion  of  Old  Chester  that  nobody  ever  thought  of 
calling,  or  getting  married,  or  being  buried,  at  two 
o'clock  of  a  Saturday  afternoon.  But  on  this  rainy 
January  Saturday,  a  little  before  two,  a  carriage 
drove  up  to  the  rectory  gate,  and  a  fat,  sleepy-look 
ing  man  helped  a  very  pretty  young  woman  to  alight. 
He  held  an  umbrella  over  her  in  a  stupid,  uncertain 
way  as  they  walked  up  the  garden  path,  and  she 
scolded  him  sharply,  and  told  him  to  look  out,  the 
water  was  dripping  on  her  hat ! 

"  What's  the  odds  ?"  he  said,  good-naturedly.  "  I'll 
get  you  all  the  hats  you  want,  Mamie." 

"  Here's  the  house,"  the  young  woman  said.  "  Now, 
Gus,  you  sit  out  in  the  hall,  and  I'll  talk  to  the  old 
man." 

"  Why  can't  I  come  in  too  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  I'd  rather  see  him  alone,"  she  said. 

"  All  right,"  he  responded,  with  a  foolish  grin, 

Dr.  Lavendar  was  in  the  dining-room,  fussing  over 
the  arrangement  of  the  little  low  benches,  and  print 
ing  the  collect  on  the  blackboard.  The  *'  ©  £orb  " 
and  the  "2Umm"  were  always  written  in  very  large 

165 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

letters,  and  the  question,  "What  does  Amen  mean?" 
was  always  asked  of  the  youngest  Todd  child,  who 
was,  poor  boy,  "  wanting,"  and  could  only  remember 
that  one  answer,  which  he  recited  as  "Sobcct." 

"There's  a  man  and  woman  to  see  you,  sir,"  Mary 
said.  "  I  believe  they're  strangers.  I  guess  they 
want  to  be  married." 

"  Ho  !  What  do  they  mean  by  coming  at  this 
hour  ?"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

"  I  told  'em  you  had  the  children  coming,"  Mary 
defended  herself — Mary  was  always  defending  her 
self  ;  it  is  a  characteristic  of  her  class — "  but  they 
allowed  they  had  to  get  back  to  Mercer  to  get  a 
train  for  Australia,  and  they  couldn't  wait." 

"  If  they  go  by  rail  to  Australia  they'll  do  well," 
said  Dr.  Lavendar.  "  Well,  I  guess  I  can  marry  'em 
in  ten  minutes.  Just  be  ready  to  come  in,  Mary, 
will  you  ?" 

Then  he  went  shuffling  out  into  the  hall,  where 
the  man  was  sitting,  holding  his  hat  on  his  knees. 

"  No,  sir  ;  it's  not  me  ;  it's  my  wife  wants  to  see 
you.  She's  in  beyont." 

So  they  didn't  want  to  get  married.  Dr.  Laven 
dar  saw  Neddy  Todd  coming,  rolling  and  stumbling 
and  grinning,  along  the  street,  and  made  haste  to 
go  into  his  study. 

Of  course,  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room,  Dr. 
Lavendar  knew  the  woman.  She  had  grown  a  little 
heavier  ;  she  was  very  well  dressed,  and  was  perhaps 
prettier  than  ten  years  before.  It  was  the  same  face 
— mean  and  shallow  and  simpering ;  but  there  was 
a  hungry  look  in  it  that  he  did  not  understand. 

"  I  don't  know  as  you  recognize  me,"  she  began, 
airily.  "  I  was—" 

1 66 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

"  I  recognize  you.     You  are  Mary  Dean." 

"  Well,  I  was.  I'm  Mrs.  Gus  Larkin  now.  I'm 
married."  She  laughed  a  little  as  she  spoke,  with 
a  coquettish  toss  of  her  head.  "  That's  him  out  in 
the  hall.  We're  going  to  live  in  Australia.  We  sail 
on  Tuesday.  He's  a  mechanical  engineer,  and  he 
gets  real  good  wages.  Well,  he  says  I  can  take 
baby.  So  I  come  to  get  her."  Her  face,  as  she  spoke, 
changed  and  grew  anxious,  and  her  breath  came 
quickly.  "She's  well?"  she  said.  "She's  —  alive? 
Why  don't  you  say  something  ?"  she  ended,  shrilly. 
"  My  baby  ain't — dead,  is  she  ?" 

"  No  ;  oh  no  ;  no,"  he  said,  feebly.  Then  he  sat 
down  and  looked  at  her.  Two  umbrellas,  bobbing 
against  each  other,  came  up  the  path.  Two  more 
children.  He  wondered  who  they  were. 

Mary  was  instantly  relieved  and  happy.  "Of  course 
it's  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  her,"  she  began;  "but 
there  !  there  hasn't  been  a  day  I  'ain't  thought  of 
her.  Is  she  pretty?  Well,  about  two  months  ago 
he  married  me,  and  as  soon  as  I  got  a  home  of  my 
own  I  just  thought  I'd  have  baby.  That  was  my 
first  thought,  though  of  course  I  was  real  glad  to  be 
respectable.  But  I'll  have  baby,  I  says  to  myself. 
Well,  he's  real  kind  ;  I'll  say  that  for  him.  And  he 
said  I  could  have  her.  So  I've  come  to  get  her. 
We're  going  back  to  Mercer  to-night,  because  we've 
got  to  start  to-morrow  morning.  And  Tuesday  we 
get  on  the  ship.  Baby — well,  there!  She  ain't  a 
baby  now  ;  I  suppose  she's  grown  a  big  girl  ?  She'll 
be  real  interested  in  seem'  a  ship.  I  am  myself.  I 
never  seen  a  ship — or  an  ocean.  Oh,  well,  sir,  you 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  me  to  get  my  baby  back 
again  !" 

167 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Her  face  moved  suddenly,  with  tears,  but  she 
smiled.  Dr.  Lavendar  felt  a  curious  faintness  ;  the 
suddenness  of  the  thing — an  abstraction  violently 
materialized,  so  to  speak — gave  him  a  physical  as 
well  as  a  moral  shock.  The  real  mother,  a  married 
woman,  "  respectable,"  as  she  said,  was  asking,  natu 
rally,  simply,  for  her  child.  And  of  course  she  must 
have  it. 

"I  do  not  think,"  he  said,  slowly,  his  voice  deep 
and  trembling,  "  that  you  really  love  your  child  : 
ten  years  of  indifference  to  her  fate  does  not  show 
much  love  !"  He  began  to  get  his  breath,  and  sat 
up  straight  in  his  chair,  glowering  at  her  under  stern 
brows. 

"Well,"  she  defended  herself,  "of  course  I  see  how 
it  looks  to  you.  But — there  !  I  couldn't  have  her 
with  me.  Why,  how  could  I  ?  and  me — the  way  I 
was  ?  Why,  I  'cvouldn't.  I  loved  her,  though,  all  the 
time.  I  don't  know  as  you'll  believe  me?" 

Dr.  Lavendar  said  to  himself  that  he  did  not  be 
lieve  her  ;  but  deep  down  in  his  heart,  in  a  fright 
ened  way,  he  knew  that  she  was  speaking  the  truth. 
"  How  long  have  you  been  married  ?"  he  said.  She 
told  him ;  and  added  that  "  he  "  was  perfectly  respect 
able. 

"What  do  you  call  respectable?"  Dr.  Lavendar 
said ;  and  even  in  his  alarm  and  confusion  he  knew, 
with  shame,  that  there  was  contempt  in  his  voice — 
"what  ^.Q  you  call  respectable?" 

"Well,  Gus  never  was  took  up,  and  he  never  kept 
company  with  them  that  was  took  up,"  she  said, 
proudly;  "  and  he  gets  good  wages.  Before  we  broke 
up  to  go  to  his  place  in  Australia  we  had  a  Brussels 
carpet  on  our  parlor  floor,  and  a  piano— (we  were 

1 68 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

getting  it  on  instalments,  but  then  it's  all  the  same; 
it  was  standing  right  in  our  bow-window).  Baby  '11 
have  a  good  home.  He  had  twenty-two  dollars  a 
week,  and  he's  going  to  have  forty  dollars  in  Mel 
bourne.  I'll  dress  her  pretty,  I  can  tell  you  !" 

Respectability  :  "  not  to  have  been  arrested !" 
Well !  well !  Anna,  ten  years  old,  trained  in  every 
sweet  old-fashioned  delicacy  of  thought  and  speech, 
in  the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord,  was  to 
be  thrown  into  such  "respectability  !" 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  clearing  his  throat,  but  speaking 
huskily  and  with  a  shaking  voice,  "  you  gave  your 
child  away.  Why  do  you  want  her  now  ?  She  is  in 
a  good  home,  and  has  good  friends.  Why  don't  you 
leave  her  there?" 

She  listened  to  him  in  amazement,  and  then  burst 
out  laughing.  "  Leave  her  ?  Well,  I  guess  I  won't ! 
I'm  willing  to  pay  the  folks  for  her  board,  if  they 
ask  it.  But  a  child  don't  eat  much,  and  I  guess 
they've  made  her  work  ;  a  bound-out  child  works  her 
passage  every  time.  Still,  I'll  pay.  As  for  leavin' 
her  —  why,  I  married  him  more  to  get  her  a  good 
home  than  anything  else  !" 

The  room  darkened  with  a  splash  of  rain  against 
the  window.  Some  more  children  came  up  through 
the  garden,  their  umbrellas  huddled  together,  and 
their  little  feet  crunching  the  wet  gravel  of  the  path. 
He  could  hear  the  murmur  of  their  chatter,  and 
caught  Theophilus  Bell's  shrill  inquiry,  "Say,  Lydia, 
*  what  is  required  of  persons  to  be  baptisted  ?'  "  They 
came  clattering  into  the  hall ;  and  then  the  house 
was  silent  again,  except  that  the  man  waiting  out 
side  coughed,  and  moved  about  restlessly. 

"  I  never  signed  papers  to  adopt  her  out — did  I  ? 
«  169 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Well,  then,  the  law  'd  give  her  to  me.  I'm  her 
mother." 

Her  mother  !  Sacred  and  invincible  word  !  There 
came  keenly  to  his  mind  a  phrase  Rachel  had  used — 
"  only  the  mother  of  her  body."  Of  course  Rachel 
was  wrong ;  but  why  hadn't  she  adopted  Anna  ?  for 
in  the  security  of  years,  foolishly  enough,  the  ques 
tion  of  legal  adoption  had  not  been  raised. 

"Mary,"  h'e  said,  "think  —  think  what  you  are 
doing  ! — to  take  her  away  from  a  good  home.  I — I 
hope  you  won't  do  it  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  violently.  "  You  needn't  talk 
to  me  about  good  homes ;  I've  got  a  good  home  for 
her.  And  I'm  respectable." 

"  Oh,  do  give  it  up,  Mary,"  he  said,  his  voice 
shaking  with  agitation — "  do  consider  her  welfare  ! 
Mary,  let  me  put  it  to  your  husband.  He  is  kind, 
as  you  say,  to  be  willing  to  take  her  ;  but  let  me 
tell  him— " 

"  No."  She  went  and  stood  in  front  of  the  door, 
with  a  frightened  look.  "  No  !" 

"  Let  me  tell  him  how  it  is,"  he  insisted.  He  had 
it  in  mind  to  offer  these  people  money. 

Mary  caught  him  by  the  wrist.  "  No,  you — you 
mustn't.  He — I  told  him  it  was  my  sister's  child. 
He — don't  know." 

Dr.  Lavendar  fell  back,  but  his  face  cleared.  "A 
lie!"  he  said.  "Mary,  you're  not  worthy  of  her. 
What  do  I  care  if  you  gave  her  birth?  You  are 
nothing  but  her  mother  !  She  shall  stay  where  she 
is!" 

Mary  turned  white;  then  she  dropped  down  at 
his  feet.  "  Give  me  my  baby,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Lavendar,  give  me  my  baby  !"  She  put  her  arms 

170 


r 


THEN   SHE   DROPPED   DOWN   AT   HIS   FEET 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

about  his  knees  and  looked  up  at  him,  her  voice 
hoarse  and  whispering.  "  I  must  have  her — I  must 
have  her !"  She  dropped  her  face  on  the  floor, 
moaning  like  an  animal.  He  looked  down  at  her, 
the  difficult  tears  of  age  standing  in  his  eyes. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  trying  to  lift  her,  "stop  —  stop 
and  think  of  An  —  of  the  child's  best  good.  And, 
besides,  you  have  another  child ;  why  not  get  it?" 

"Dead,"  she  said,  brokenly  ;  "dead." 

"I  believe,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "it  is  better  dead 
than  with  you.  Alas  that  I  must  say  so !  And  as 
for  this  child,  that  you  deserted  ten  years  ago,  when 
I  say  she  must  stay  where  she  is,  I  am  not  thinking 
of — of  the  people  she  is  living  with,  who  would  be 
heart-broken  to  part  with  her  ;  I'm  thinking  of  her 
future — " 

"Well,  but,"  she  interrupted,  passionately,  "what 
about  me?  Haven't  I  any  future?  You've  got  to 
give  her  to  me  !" 

But  he  knew  from  her  confession  that  her  hus 
band  was  ignorant  of  her  past,  and  that  he  held  the 
situation  in  his  hand :  she  could  not  force  him  to 
give  Anna  up  unless  she  betrayed  herself ;  and  that, 
it  was  plain,  she  would  not  do. 

"I  tell  you,"  she  insisted,  "I'll  give  her  as  good  a 
home  as  anybody.  Oh,  my  little,  little  baby  !  I 
want  my  baby !  Oh,  you  haven't  a  heart  in  you,  to 
kill  me  like  this !  My  baby — "  Again  she  broke  off, 
gasping  and  sobbing.  It  was  horrible  and  heart 
breaking.  A  timid  knock  at  the  door  came  like  a 
crash  into  their  ears. 

"  Mamie !" 

Mary  leaped  to  her  feet,  brushing  her  hand  over 
her  eyes,  and  panting,  but  holding  herself  rigid. 

171 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

("  Don't  tell  him,"  she  said,  rapidly ;)  and  then 
laughed,  in  a  silly,  breathless  way.  "  Go  'way,  Gus ; 
I  ain't  through  yet." 

"  I  thought  I  heard  you  takin'  on,"  he  said,  peer 
ing  suspiciously  into  the  room. 

"  Oh,  get  out  with  you  !"  she  answered.  "No;  I 
was  just  talking.  Go  back,  I'll  be  out  in  a  minute." 
The  man  withdrew,  meekly. 

Dr.  Lavendar  stood  looking  at  her ;  he  had  no 
doubts  now.  "  Not  that  which  is  natural  but  that 
which  is  spiritual,"  he  thought  to  himself.  He 
wondered  if  the  children  had  all  come ;  he  wondered 
if  Anna  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  little  hard  benches, 
saying  her  catechism  over  to  some  other  child. 
Mary  talked  on,  passionately,  but  in  a  low  voice. 
She  urged  every  conceivable  reason  for  the  custody 
of  her  child,  ending  by  saying,  in  sudden  anger — for 
Dr.  Lavendar  only  answered  her  by  a  slow,  silent 
shake  of  the  head — 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  think,  if  I'm  so  bad  I  can't 
have  her,  that  the  folks  that  has  her  would  want  a 
child  with  such  bad  blood  in  her  !"  She  was  trem 
bling  again,  and  ready  for  another  wild  burst  of 
tears. 

But  as  she  spoke,  Gus  knocked  once  more.  "  Say, 
Mame :  we've  got  to  go  ;  we'll  miss  the  train." 

"Shut  the  door,"  she  said.  Then  looked  full 
into  Dr.  Lavendar's  face.  "  Will  you  give  me  wy 
child?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  pityingly. 

She  stared  at  him  a  moment,  her  eyes  narrowing, 
hate  and  fear  and  misery  in  her  face.  "Then — I'll 
go  to  hell !"  she  said  ;  and  turned  and  left  him,  shut 
ting  the  door  behind  her  softly. 

172 


THE    CHILD'S    MOTHER 

"  Come  on,"  she  told  the  meek  husband. 

Gus  followed  her  out  into  the  rain. 

"Are  you  goin'  after  the  young  one  now?"  he 
said. 

"  No.  He  won't  let  me  get  her.  He  says  she'd 
ought  to  stay  with  the  folks  that  took  her  when  my 
sister  died." 

Gus  opened  the  carriage  door  for  her,  and  chuckled. 
"  Well,  now,  Mame,  it  would  be  quite  a  change  for 
her.  We're  strangers  to  her,  and  she  might  be 
homesick.  I  didn't  let  on  to  you,  but  I  thought  of 
that.  I  don't  know  but  what  the  old  gentleman  is 
right.  And,  you  know,  maybe — "  He  whispered 
something,  looking  at  her  out  of  his  stupid,  kindly 
eyes,  his  loose,  weak  mouth  dropping  into  its  mean 
ingless  smile. 

Dr.  Lavendar  went  to  a  little  closet  in  the  chimney 
breast,  and  took  out  a  chunky  black  bottle  and  a 
glass.  His  hands  shook  so  that  the  bottle  and 
tumbler  clinked  together.  He  had  to  sit  down  a 
few  minutes  and  get  his  breath  and  strength  ;  the 
struggle  had  profoundly  exhausted  him ;  he  looked 
very  old  as  he  sat  there  and  swallowed  his  thimbleful 
of  brandy. 

"  Solomon  didn't  know  everything,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "but  may  God  forgive  me  if  I've  done 
wrong !" 

In  the  dining-room  the  children  were  yawning 
and  squabbling  and  hearing  each  other  repeat  the 
Collect  and  uyour  duty  to  your  neighbor."  It  was 
nearly  three.  Theophilus  Bell  had  instituted  a 
game  of  "  settlers  escaping  from  Indians,"  which  in- 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

volved  diving  under  the  table,  and  leaping  over  the 
benches ;  but  the  girls  felt  that  such  levity  was  sac 
rilegious. 

"There's  prayer-books  here,"  Anna  King  said,  "so 
it's  just  the  same  as  church." 

"A  prayer-book,"  returned  Theophilus,  scornfully, 
"  isn't  anything  but  a  book ;  it's  the  prayers  out  of 
it  that  makes  the  church,  and—"  But  his  voice 
trailed  off  into  quick  subsidence  as  Dr.  Lavendar 
came  in. 

"Well,  children,"  he  said,  "you  had  to  wait.  I'm 
sorry.  I  think,  though,  as  it's  so  late,  we  won't  have 
any  lesson — " 

("  Bully  !"  said  Theophilus,  under  his  breath.) 

" — but  we'll  repeat  the  Collect,  all  together,  and 
then  you  may  go  home." 

"Aren't  we  going  to  have  our  apples?"  remon 
strated  Theophilus. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  yes.  Yes,  yes.  Come,  Anna,  my 
child,  and  kneel  down  here  beside  me.  Children,  let 
us  pray : 

"  O  Lord,  we  beseech  Thee  mercifully  to  receive  the 
prayers  of  Thy  people  ^vho  call  upon  Thee  ;  and  grant 
t/iat  they  may  both  perceive  and  know  what  things 
they  ought  to  do,  and  also  may  have  grace  and  power 
faithfully  to  fulfil  the  same ;  through  Jesus  Christ 
our  Lord. 

"Amen!"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 


JUSTICE   AND   THE  JUDGE 


JUSTICE  AND   THE  JUDGE 


I 

THE  orchard  sloped  down  the  hill-side  from  the 
Judge's  house  to  the  dusty  turnpike  that  bent  around 
the  estate  like  an  arm  —  an  arm  that  ended  in  a 
threatening  fist  where,  in  Mercer,  the  road  broadened 
into  the  square  before  the  court-house  and  the  gray 
granite  jail.  The  road  itself  was  pretty  enough,  ex 
cept  where  it  passed  through  Mercer's  squalid  mill 
suburbs  ;  it  kept  near  the  river,  wandering  across 
the  meadows,  and  then  up  and  over  the  hills,  through 
the  shadows  of  buttonwoods  and  chestnuts  ;  but  it 
lost  its  prettiness  again  where,  just  this  side  of  Old 
Chester,  it  held,  in  a  little  bend,  a  cluster  of  shape 
less  houses,  with  patched  walls  and  unsteady  stove 
pipes,  and  muddy  foot-paths  where  grunting  pigs 
refused  to  stir  to  give  room  to  the  passer-by.  The 
men  who  worked  in  the  brick-kilns  lived  in  this  set 
tlement,  and  paid  an  exorbitant  rent  to  the  Judge ; 
their  unsightly  hovels  were  not  visible  from  his  mel 
ancholy  old  house  on  the  hill,  because  the  road  came 
between  them,  and  then  a  fringe  of  elderberries  and 
sumachs,  and  then  the  orchard,  where  the  trees,  un- 
pruned  for  many  a  year,  were  thick  with  bunches 
of  twigs  and  gray  with  lichen.  The  brickmakers' 

177 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

village  was  not  beautiful  to  look  upon,  but  it  meant 
no  irony  when  it  named  itself  "  Morrison's  Shanty- 
town."  Indeed,  it  had  a  certain  pride  in  having  a 
landlord  who  was  rich  and  powerful ;  and  it  boasted 
about  his  money  and  his  "  big  house  "  in  a  way  that 
would  have  greatly  astonished  the  Judge,  who,  plod 
ding  along  on  his  big,  rangy  Kentucky  horse,  used  to 
turn  his  head  away  when  he  passed  the  group  of 
houses  self-christened  with  his  honorable  name. 

It  was  this  neighborly  pride,  rather  than  any 
malice,  that  made  the  Judge's  orchard  a  place  where 
Morrison's  Shantytown  took  its  outings  and  its 
apples.  As  for  the  latter,  they  were  poor  enough — 
hard,  gnarly  russets,  or  small,  bitter  rambos.  The 
time  was  long  past  since  the  orchard  was  in  its 
prime ;  in  those  days  there  had  been  boys  and  girls 
in  the  "  big  house,"  and  the  Judge  himself,  the  eldest 
brother,  was  a  serious  young  man  who  wore  a  stock 
and  a  flowered  waistcoat.  The  serious  young  man 
turned  into  a  serious  elderly  man,  and  the  brothers 
and  sisters  scattered  off  into  the  world ;  and  the 
orchard  grew  rankly,  and  the  brickmakers  began  to 
huddle  together  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  below  the  great, 
dilapidated  old  house  where,  with  his  sister  Hannah, 
the  Judge  lived,  absorbed  in  his  profession,  and, 
when  he  was  not  contemptuous,  indifferent  to  all  the 
world  besides.  If  he  had  a  purely  human  emotion, 
it  was  pride  that  he  had  never  been  so  great  a  fool 
as  to  care  for  any  human  creature;  he  endured  his 
fellow-beings,  and  was  just  to  them — he  said ;  but  he 
never  knew  a  man,  woman,  or  child  who  could  not 
be  bought  and  sold  like  a  bale  of  cotton.  "  I  could 
probably  be  bought  myself,"  he  said,  "  if  I  could 
think  of  anything  I  wanted  enough  as  a  price." 

178 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

This  was  the  atmosphere  into  which  Theophilus 
Bell  came  to  live.  A  silent  child,  with  mild,  wide 
brown  eyes,  and  straight,  silken  brown  hair  parted 
over  his  candid  forehead.  Theophilus's  mother  had 
been  the  Judge's  younger  sister.  He  had  liked  her, 
in  his  way;  at  least,  he  liked  her  better  than  his  older 
sister,  Hannah,  who,  besides  being  a  woman,  was  a 
fool  —  he  had  so  informed  her  many  times.  The 
Judge  had  supposed  that  Theophilus's  mother  was 
going  to  keep  house  for  him,  and  be  the  meek,  sub 
ject  woman  that  their  mother  had  been  to  their 
father.  Instead,  when  she  was  over  thirty,  she  sud 
denly  married  a  poor,  good-for-nothing,  amiable  fel 
low,  an  artist — a  scallawag,  the  Judge  called  him — 
who  had  not  even  kept  her  alive,  for  she  died  in  a 
year,  leaving  this  one  child,  whom  she,  with  silly, 
feminine  sentiment,  had  chosen  to  name  after  her 
eldest  brother. 

"Thinks  I'll  leave  my  money  to  him,"  the  Judge 
said  to  himself  when  he  was  informed  of  the  com 
pliment  that  had  been  paid  him ;  and  his  eyes  nar 
rowed  into  a  sort  of  laugh. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  call  him  Theophilus,"  he 
wrote  the  mother,  "but  I  should  think  the  name 
would  kill  him.  And  perhaps  I  had  better  take  this 
opportunity  of  stating  he  need  have  no  expecta 
tions  from  me  ;  all  my  money  will  go  in  public  be 
quests." 

Theophilus  survived  the  name,  but  his  mother  did 
not  long  survive  the  letter.  As  for  his  father,  when 
the  child  was  ten  years  old,  the  poor,  gentle,  sickly 
gentleman  realized  that  he  too  was  going  to  leave 
the  boy,  so  his  future  must  be  provided  for.  So  he 
gave  Theophilus  two  charges  :  "  Now,  boy,  remem- 

179 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

ber,  when  father  isn't  here — remember  all  your  life : 
'  Don't  cry;  and  play  fair  /' "  and  then  he  made  his 
will,  bequeathing  his  only  possession  in  the  world, 
Theophilus,  to  the  Judge. 

He  informed  his  brother-in-law  of  this  fact  by 
letter.  Then  he  died.  The  Judge's  astonishment 
and  ire  made  him  take  a  few  days  to  reflect  how 
he  was  to  decline  this  unexpected  gift ;  and  while  he 
reflected,  the  scallawag  was  buried  and  Theophilus 
arrived. 

The  stage  dropped  Theophilus  at  the  gate  at  the 
foot  of  the  orchard. 

"  The  Judge  lives  up  on  the  hill,"  said  the  driver, 
pointing  with  the  handle  of  his  whip ;  then  the  old 
yellow  coach  creaked,  and  sagged  forward,  and  went 
rumbling  into  the  evening  dusk. 

The  little  boy  stood  looking  after  it  with  straining 
eyes.  It  seemed  to  be  his  last  friend  disappearing 
around  the  shoulder  of  the  hill. 

As  Mr.  Bell's  funeral  had  been  nobody's  business  in 
particular,  except  an  inconvenienced  landlady's,  who 
wished  to  get  it  over  as  soon  as  possible,  and  an  offi 
ciating  clergyman's,  who  was  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  a 
parishioner's  tea  party,  there  had  been  nobody  who 
thought  it  worth  while  to  prepare  Mr.  Justice  Morri 
son's  mind  for  his  nephew's  arrival.  The  landlady 
u  shipped  "  the  child  the  morning  after  the  funeral, 
and  the  undertaker  mailed  the  bill  for  his  services 
at  the  same  time.  Theophilus  was  sent  through  like 
an  express  parcel,  and  dropped  here  on  the  road 
side  with  his  big  valise,  which  held  all  his  belong 
ings—and  held  also,  squeezed  into  a  corner  by  the 
little  boy  when  the  landlady  was  not  looking,  his 

1 80 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

father's  old  pipe.  The  landlady  missed  the  pipe 
afterwards  when  she  evened  up  her  account  with 
the  poor  deceased  gentleman.  She  said  she  was  sure 
that  the  undertaker  had  stolen  it,  and  she  felt  an 
added  resentment  at  Mr.  Bell  for  his  inconsiderate- 
ness  in  dying  in  a  boarding-house. 

The  country  road  was  very  quiet ;  the  orchard  on 
the  hill-side  was  full  of  shadows,  and  the  path  up  to 
the  house  was  almost  hidden  by  the  fringe  of  grass 
on  either  side.  Theophilus  wondered  if  his  uncle 
had  any  dogs.  He  thought  the  orchard  looked  very 
dark ;  he  thought  the  valise  was  pretty  heavy  ;  he — 
wanted  his  father.  Theophilus  hunted  in  his  pocket 
for  his  handkerchief.  He  was  a  very  little  boy ;  he 
was  dressed  in  an  old-fashioned  way,  and  had  the 
nervous  and  silent  exactness  of  a  child  who  has 
shared  an  older  person's  experiences  and  anxieties. 
When  he  had  squeezed  his  handkerchief  against  his 
eyes,  and  swallowed  hard,  he  folded  the  small  square 
neatly  up  and  put  it  back  into  his  pocket ;  then  he 
tugged  at  the  bag,  and  got  it  on  his  shoulder,  and 
began  to  climb  the  hill. 

The  house  loomed  up  black  and  desolate  in  the 
autumn  twilight.  Across  the  closed  and  shuttered 
front  there  was  a  portico,  with  wooden  columns  that 
had  once  been  white,  but  from  which  the  blistered 
paint  had  cracked  and  flaked ;  the  ceiling  of  this 
porch  had  been  plastered,  but  the  plaster  had  broken 
here  and  there,  and  fallen,  and  the  laths  showed 
gaunt  and  dusty ;  mud  -  swallows  had  built  their 
nests  in  the  corners,  and  a  gray  ball  showed  that 
the  paper-wasps  liked  the  crumbling  shelter.  There 
had  been  a  garden  once  in  front  of  the  house,  but 
now  there  was  only  a  vague  outline  of  box-borders, 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

dead  and  broken  down,  or  growing  high  and  stiff 
in  favored  spots.  There  were  a  good  many  trees 
around  the  house,  and  in  some  places  their  dense 
foliage  kept  the  ground  beneath  so  shadowed  that 
it  was  bald  and  bare,  or  slippery  with  green  mould. 
Theophilus,  panting  up  the  orchard  path,  crossed  the 
weedy  driveway  and  came  up  to  the  porch  steps.  There 
was  not  a  light  anywhere  in  the  forbidding  front.  It 
was  very  still  up  there  on  top  of  the  hill,  and  it  is 
pretty  dark  on  an  October  evening  by  six  o'clock. 
Theophilus  felt  his  heart  come  up  into  his  throat ;  he 
stepped  stealthily,  and  started  when  a  twig  snapped 
underfoot.  The  dark  shuttered  house,  brooding  in 
the  twilight,  and  the  little  boy  with  his  heart  in  his 
mouth,  confronted  each  other.  Theophilus  looked 
over  his  shoulder  breathlessly.  Suppose  he  should 
run  down  the  hill  just  as  hard  as  he  could?  His 
very  legs  felt  the  impulse  to  run  !  But  what  dread 
ful  thing  might  be  behind  him  if  he  started?  He 
sobbed  once,  hauled  at  the  valise,  went  right  up  the 
steps,  and  tugged  at  the  bell. 

The  Judge  and  Miss  Hannah  were  at  supper.  The 
dining-room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house ;  in  fact,  in 
the  liberal  days  of  the  Morrison  family,-  before  the 
Judge  got  rich,  this  room  had  been  the  kitchen  ; 
now,  Miss  Hannah  did  the  cooking  in  the  wash- 
house,  and  her  brother  came  in  the  back  way  ;  the 
front  part  of  the  house  —  the  hall,  and  the  double 
parlors  on  each  side  of  it  —  had  been  shut  up  for 
many  years. 

There  was  a  lamp  on  the  table  by  the  Judge's 
book,  but  the  rest  of  the  room  was  dark.  "  Don't 
waste  oil,"  Miss  Hannah  had  been  instructed  long 

182 


"THEOPHILUS  WENT  RIGHT  UP  THE  STEP  AND  TUGGED  AT 
THE  BELL" 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

ago ;  so  she  fumbled  about  in  the  dim  light,  and 
brought  her  brother  his  bread  and  butter  and  meat, 
and  pecked  at  bits  from  the  plates  as  she  carried 
them  in  and  out,  like  a  thin  gray  bird  with  frightened 
eyes.  Then  she  sat  down  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  table,  watching  her  brother,  and  ready  to  jump 
if  he  looked  up  from  his  book.  The  Judge's  head 
stood  out  gray  and  wolfish  against  the  nimbus  of 
light  from  the  lamp.  The  wrinkles  on  his  shaven 
face  spread  like  threads  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes, 
and  were  drawn  down  in  deep  sharp  folds  from  his 
nostrils ;  his  cold,  mean  mouth  was  puckered,  as  if  a 
drawing-string  had  been  run  around  it,  then  pulled 
up  tightly.  The  book  he  read  was  a  French  novel. 
Miss  Hannah  ate  her  bread-and-butter,  and  wonder 
ed  when  he  would  be  ready  for  his  tea. 

Then  they  both  looked  up  with  a  start. 

The  rusty  wire  running  along  the  ceiling  jerked, 
snapped,  and  the  bell  at  the  end  of  it  jangled  faint 
ly,  and  then  swung  back  and  forth  soundless,  as  if 
breathless  from  exertion.  The  brother  and  sister 
looked  up  at  it  open-mouthed. 

"What's  that?"  said  the  Judge. 

"  The— bell,"  Miss  Hannah  faltered. 

"  I  inferred  as  much,"  the  Judge  said.  "  Well,  go 
see  who  it  is." 

Miss  Hannah  got  up  nimbly,  as  a  horse  jerks  for 
ward  at  the  crack  of  a  whip  ;  she  went  trotting 
through  the  dark  hall,  but  waited  a  moment  before 
she  turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  "  Who's  there  ?"  she 
said,  faintly. 

A  small  voice  answered  through  the  key  -  hole  : 
14  Theophilus." 

Miss  Hannah  caught  her  breath  and  stood  pant- 
183 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

ing  ;  it  took  her  a  good  minute  to  draw  the  bolt  and 
unlock  the  door,  and  when  she  did,  the  little  boy 
fell  forward  into  the  hall,  he  had  been  so  crouched 
against  the  door,  for  terror  of  the  night,  and  the 
stillness,  and  the  great  shadows  under  the  roof  of 
the  porch. 

"  Does  my  uncle  live  here  ?"  said  Theophilus,  sob 
bing.  At  that  Miss  Hannah  knelt  down  in  front  of 
him  and  kissed  him,  and  strained  him  to  her  with 
her  trembling  old  arms. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you're  crying,"  Theophilus  re 
monstrated.  "  Did  I  hurt  you  when  I  ran  against 
you?  The  door  opened  —  unexpectedly.  Are  you 
my  uncle's  cook  ?" 

At  this  Miss  Hannah  got  up  with  a  start,  as 
though  she  heard  the  whip  crack,  and  looked  over 
her  shoulder.  "  Oh  dear  !"  she  said,  "what  shall  we 
do?"  And  as  she  spoke  the  cold,  precise  voice  called 
out  : 

"  Hannah  !  tell  whoever  it  is  that  messages  come 
to  the  back  door.  I'm  ready  for  my  tea." 

"What  had  you  better  do?"  gasped  Miss  Hannah. 

Theophilus  tugged  at  his  valise.  "  If  you'll  help 
me  carry  this,"  he  said,  politely,  "I'll  ask  my  uncle 
to  pay  you.  It's  very  heavy." 

"  Oh,  don't,"  poor  old  Hannah  entreated.  "  Oh, 
do— oh,  my  !  What  will  he  say?"  But  she  followed, 
helping  with  the  valise,  irresponsible  and  inconse 
quent. 

As  for  Theophilus,  he  made  his  way  to  the  room 
where  the  Judge  was  waiting  for  his  tea. 

"  Hannah,  you  are  slower  than — "  Then  he  looked 
up  and  saw  Theophilus. 

"Uncle,"  said  the  little  boy,  "father  said  to  tell 
184 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

you  that  I  wouldn't  be  any  trouble.  He  said  I  was 
a  pretty  good  boy,"  said  Theophilus,  his  voice  shak 
ing,  "and  I've  come  to  live  with  you.  Is  that  youf 
cook  ?  I  nearly  knocked  her  down  when  I  came  in  ; 
but  I  didn't  mean  to.  Shall  I  have  my  supper  now, 
uncle?" 

"  Who  the  devil—  Is  this  that  man  Bell's  brat  ? 
Hannah,  what  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  brother,  it's  Mary's  child,"  old  Miss  Hannah 
said.  "  Don't  you  see  ? — her  eyes  !  and  oh,  brother, 
he  was  named  after  you." 

"  Oh,  you're  my  aunt,  are  you  ?"  Theophilus  in 
quired.  "  Father  said — "  but  the  tears  came  at  the 
name  ;  "  my  father,  he  said — " 

"  There,  dear  ;  there,"  Hannah  whispered  ;  "  don't 
— do — I  wouldn't — brother  won't  like — " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  cry,"  said  Theophilus  ;  "  father 
told  me  not  to.  Uncle,  may  I  have  my  supper  ?" 

"  Hannah,  get  me  my  tea.  Can't  you  shut  him 
up?  Give  him  some  food  and  send  him  to  bed. 
What  the  devil — "  And  the  Judge  took  his  novel 
and  the  lamp  and  went  abruptly  out  of  the  room. 
Miss  Hannah  and  Theophilus,  left  in  the  darkness, 
heard  the  stairs  creak  under  his  angry  foot,  and  then 
the  bang  of  the  library  door. 

"  Oh  dear !  ought  I  to  take  his  tea  up  to  him  ?" 
panted  Miss  Hannah,  fumbling  about  for  matches 
and  a  candle.  "  Oh,  my  dear  little  boy,  why  did  you 
come?" 

"  He  isn't  very  pleasant,  is  he,  aunt  ?"  said  The 
ophilus.  "  Father  said  he  was  a  pagan." 

"  A  pagan  !"  Miss  Hannah  repeated,  shocked. 
"  Why,  no,  indeed  !  A  pagan  is  a  heathen,  and  your 
uncle  is  a  Christian.  You  mustn't  say  such  things, 
13  185 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

my  little  boy.  Pagan !  why,  not  at  all — indeed  he 
isn't."  Miss  Hannah  was  frightened  and  ruffled  and 
crying  all  at  once. 

"I  think,"  said  Theophilus,  shyly,  "father  only 
meant  a  brute.  I'd  like  my  supper  a  good  deal, 
aunt." 


II 

This  was  the  beginning  of  Theophilus's  life  with 
the  Judge— or,  rather,  in  the  Judge's  house.  Miss 
Hannah,  palpitating  with  fright,  bade  the  boy  "  keep 
out  of  brother's  way  "  ;  and  Theophilus  was  quite 
willing  to  do  so.  The  first  day  or  two  poor  old 
Hannah  scarcely  dared  to  breathe,  for  fear  of  re 
minding  the  Judge  of  her  existence,  and  so,  inci 
dentally,  of  his  nephew's ;  she  lived  in  terror  of 
being  told  that  the  boy  must  be  sent  away — "  to  the 
poor-house  ;  or  to  the  devil !"  her  brother  was  capa 
ble  of  saying. 

For  the  Judge  was  sharply  angry ;  all  the  more 
so  because  he  found  himself  unable  to  dismiss  the 
whole  thing  by  packing  the  child  off.  "  I  don't  know 
why  I  put  up  with  it,"  he  snarled  to  himself.  "Why 
should  I  support  other  people's  brats?  And  as  for 
leaving  him  anything — of  course  that's  what  Bell 
was  up  to — "  And  then  the  Judge  chuckled,  and 
thought  of  his  will.  But  in  a  minute  he  gritted  his 
teeth  with  anger.  Bell  had  gotten  ahead  of  him, 
and  he  couldn't  get  at  him  to  express  his  opinion. 
"  Contemptible  !"  he  said.  "  These  men  who  go  off 
to  play  on  their  golden  harps,  and  leave  other  men 
to  support  their  progeny,  are  religious  tramps  !  One 
of  these  days  we'll  get  civilized  enough  to  legislate 

186 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

on  this  matter  of  offspring ;  every  child  that  can't 
be  supported  properly  by  its  parents  will  have  its 
neck  wrung !  and  the  father's  and  mother's  too,  if  I 
had  my  way." 

At  which  Miss  Hannah  blanched,  and  hid  The- 
ophilus  away  still  more  carefully.  But  that  was 
how  it  was  conceded  that  he  might  remain.  So  Miss 
Hannah  got  her  breath,  though  she  was  always  look 
ing  over  her  shoulder,  so  to  speak,  for  fear  the  Judge 
should4' legislate." 

As  for  Theophilus,  he  was  very  quiet  and  obe 
dient.  He  missed  his  father  with  all  his  little  mind 
and  heart,  and  used  to  take  the  pipe  out  of  his  valise 
every  night,  and  hold  it  in  his  hands,  and  sometimes 
he  would  blink  and  draw  in  his  breath  in  the  dark, 
and  remember  that  he  had  promised  not  to  cry  ;  but 
he  never  spoke  of  his  loss  to  Miss  Hannah,  who  said 
to  herself  that  she  was  glad  he  "had  gotten  over  it." 
Theophilus  helped  her  a  good  deal  in  her  pottering 
work  about  the  untidy,  dilapidated  house,  and  took 
his  food  in  the  wash-house  when  the  Judge  had  fin 
ished  his  meals,  and  played  about  by  himself,  and 
crept  noiselessly  up -stairs  to  go  to  bed  in  a  little 
closet  of  a  room  far  away  from  his  uncle's.  He 
seemed  fond  of  Miss  Hannah,  and  used  to  sit  and 
hold  her  hand,  and  play  with  the  thin  old  fingers, 
and  lean  his  head  against  her  knee.  He  did  not  talk 
much,  and  never  about  himself ;  but  his  soft  ways 
quite  hid  from  his  aunt  that  he  was  not  a  confiding 
child. 

When  the  winter  came  he  used  to  trudge  in  to  Old 
Chester  every  morning  to  the  public  school — Miss 
Hannah  would  not  have  dreamed  of  asking  her 
brother  for  money  to  send  him  to  Miss  Bailey's 

187 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

little  private  school.  He  used  to  go  to  Dr.  Laven- 
dar's  collect  class  on  Saturdays,  and  he  went  to 
church  with  Miss  Hannah  every  Sunday  ;  but  he 
made  no  friendships  among  the  Old  Chester  chil 
dren. 

"  He's  so  shy,"  Miss  Hannah  used  to  explain.  But 
though  Theophilus  held  her  skirt  in  a  nervous  grip, 
he  looked  out  from  behind  it  calmly,  with  far  less 
shyness  than  was  visible  in  Miss  Hannah's  own  face. 
He  was  perfectly  silent,  unless  spoken  to,  and  then 
answered  in  gentle  monosyllables. 

That  winter  the  Judge  hardly  spoke  to  him.  The 
first  time  he  had  any  conversation  with  him  was 
once  when  he  found  Theophilus  in  the  stable,  patting 
the  big  Kentucky  horse.  He  began  to  frown  imme 
diately,  being  especially  ready  to  frown  because  the 
horse  had  gone  lame  the  night  before. 

"Uncle,"  said  Theophilus,  "Jack  had  a  stone  in 
his  shoe.  I  took  it  out." 

The  Judge  grunted.  Then  he  felt  Jack's  leg,  and 
thought  to  himself  that  it  was  the  only  time  since 
the  boy  had  been  in  the  house  that  he  had  been  good 
for  anything. 

"  I  don't  want  you  hanging  round  the  stable, 
young  man.  Do  you  hear  me  ?"  he  said.  But  he 
looked  at  Theophilus  once  or  twice  ;  and  that  night 
he  said  to  his  sister,  sharply  :  "  Hannah,  what  the 
devil  do  you  hide  that  child  away  for  ?  Have  him 
take  his  meals  in  the  dining-room.  Do  you  hear? 
Let  him  sit  with  me,  or  he'll  grow  up  a  barbarian, 
with  no  manners  !" 

And  Miss  Hannah  was  far  too  thankful  for  this 
grace  on  her  brother's  part  to  feel  any  humor  in 
reference  to  manners. 

1 88 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

The  Judge's  remark  about  hanging  around  the 
stable  did  not  deter  Theophilus  from  playing  there 
all  that  winter.  If  grown  people  will  remember, 
box-stalls  are  admirable  forts  in  which  to  hide  dur 
ing  the  attacks  of  Indians  ;  and  an  old  carriage,  un 
used  for  many  years,  the  cushions  slit  and  dusty,  is 
an  excellent  vehicle  in  which  to  journey  to  Asia  or 
the  north  pole,  as  fancy  may  chance  to  drive.  Miss 
Hannah  used  to  wonder  sometimes  what  Theophilus 
did  with  himself,  all  alone  in  the  barn.  When  she 
asked  him,  he  would  think  a  while,  and  then  say, 
vaguely, 

"  Oh,  just  play,  aunt ;"  and  Miss  Hannah  was  con 
tented. 

She  never  dreamed  of  "  bringing  him  up,"  as  Old 
Chester  expressed  it ;  all  that  the  boy  did,  and  the 
little  that  he  said,  were  perfect  in  her  mild,  fright 
ened  eyes.  She  treated  him  as  an  equal,  if  not  as 
a  superior — which,  if  Old  Chester  had  known  it, 
would  have  been  a  cause  for  anxiety  and  prayer. 
She  used  to  talk  to  him  a  great  deal  in  her  incoher 
ent  way,  telling  him  her  troubles  about  the  cost 
of  things,  and  her  worries  over  the  Judge's  food. 
And  Theophilus  listened,  and  said,  "  Yes,  aunt,"  and 
"  No,  aunt";  and  Miss  Hannah  felt  that  at  last  she 
had  a  confidant. 

After  a  while  Theophilus  began  to  wander  down 
through  the  orchard  and  look  at  Shantytown — dirty, 
good-natured,  friendly  Shantytown;  and  later  in 
the  winter  he  slipped  across  the  road  and  made  ac 
quaintance  with  the  pigs  and  chickens,  and  then 
with  the  children,  and  by-and-by  he  constructed  a 
society  of  his  own,  of  which  Katy  Murphy  was  the 
choicest  spirit. 

189 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

The  Murphys  lived  in  the  second  house  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road.  There  were  seven  dirty, 
happy  children,  and  a  big,  rosy,  comfortable  mother, 
and  the  usual  drunken,  bad-tempered  father,  and 
two  pigs,  and  a  cat,  and  the  hens — such  tame  hens 
they  were,  too,  Theophilus  noticed,  walking  all  about 
the  room  when  the  family  was  at  table  !  The  house 
was  a  series  of  little  pens,  without  any  ventilation 
to  speak  of  ;  its  earthen  floors  were  laid  in  refuse 
bricks,  and  it  was  cheerfully  and  openly  dirty.  Of 
course  the  Murphys  ought,  by  rights,  to  have  been 
sick.  Willy  King  told  Dr.  Lavendar  that  there 
would  be  a  terrible  outbreak  of  typhoid  in  Shanty- 
town  some  day.  But  so  far  it  had  not  appeared; 
which  must  have  been  very  mortifying  and  disap 
pointing  to  Willy. 

Theophilus  had  made  acquaintance  with  Katy  by 
offering  her  silently  over  the  gate  a  tumbler  of  snow 
ice-cream.  Katy,  as  silently,  ate  the  slushy  mixture 
of  sugar  and  milk  and  snow,  looking  with  big  eyes 
at  Theophilus.  After  that  they  became  friends — 
quite  speechlessly,  however.  It  was  not  until  spring, 
when  she  showed  him  how  to  make  licorice-water 
in  a  bottle,  and  he  taught  her  one  of  the  child  lan 
guages  :  "  willvus  youvus  playvus  withvus  mevus?" 
that  their  friendship  began  to  be  eloquent. 

But  Theophilus  said  nothing  about  Katy  or  Shan- 
tytown  to  his  aunt.  Miss  Hannah  sometimes  saw 
the  flutter  of  a  ragged  petticoat  or  a  shock  of  tan 
gled  hair  under  a  dirty  cap  ;  and  once  she  asked  him 
anxiously  if  he  didn't  think  perhaps  he  was  seeing 
too  much  of  those  rowdy  children  ? 

"  No,  aunt,"  said  Theophilus  ;  which  closed  the 
subject — though  Miss  Hannah  did  suggest,  hesitat- 

190 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

ingly,  that  perhaps  he  had  better  not  let  his  uncle 
see  him  playing  with  the  Shantytown  children,  be 
cause  he  might  be  displeased. 

"  He's  almost  always  displeased,  isn't  he,  aunt  ?" 
Theophilus  said,  meditatively,  but  had  no  thought 
of  committing  himself  to  a  promise. 

At  first  all  the  Murphy  children  played  with  him 
in  the  orchard,  and  there  were  the  usual  squabbles 
and  bickerings.  Katy,  however,  followed  Theophi- 
lus's  lead  in  all  their  games,  and  never  had  any  ideas 
of  her  own.  She  used  to  look  at  him  with  her  mouth 
open  and  her  eyes  wide  with  wonder,  but  she  never 
made  an  objection.  So,  by  degrees,  Nelly  and  Tom 
my  and  the  other  children  were  gently  but  firmly 
dropped.  Theophilus  found  that  friendship  a  deux 
was  quite  enough  for  him,  so  Katy  became  his  con 
stant  companion.  It  was  through  this  love  for  Katy 
that  the  Judge  first  really  wounded  the  child,  and 
laid  up  wrath  against  the  day  of  wrath.  It  was  the 
summer  of  the  seventeen-year  locusts.  Old  Chester 
will  not  soon  forget  that  summer.  On  every  leaf, 
on  every  stalk  of  blossoming  grass,  on  all  the  clover 
tops,  were  the  locusts  ;  the  hot,  still  air  was  full  of 
their  endless  z-z-z-ing^  like  the  sharpening  of  scythes. 
The  children  of  Shantytown  added  largely  to  family 
incomes  by  collecting  the  locusts,  picking  them  by 
the  hatful  or  the  basketful,  as  though  they  were 
berries,  and  being  paid  by  the  farmers  a  few  cents  a 
peck.  Theophilus,  however,  forbade  Katy's  taking 
part  in  this  industry ;  which  caused  her  soft  eyes  to 
well  over  with  tears. 

"They  kick,"  said  Theophilus;  "don't  touch  'em." 

"They're  ateing  things  up,"  Katy  murmured, 
longingly. 

191 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

The  two  children  were  sitting  on  a  stile  making 
bur  baskets.  Later,  these  baskets  were  to  be  filled 
with  the  little  whity  -  green  seeds  of  the  mallow, 
which  are  "  cheeses,"  and  are  eaten  when  one  eats 
the  white  ends  of  early  grass  and  calls  it  celery. 
Theophilus  was  frowning  with  anxiety,  because  the 
handle  of  his  basket,  made  with  burs  which  were 
I  showing  the  blossoming  pink  at  the  end,  would 
i  break,  no  matter  how  carefully  he  lifted  it.  His 
head  ached  with  the  worry  of  it,  and  with  the  sun, 
and  the  smell  of  the  burdocks,  so  he  was  glad  to 
think  about  the  locusts.  "They  are  eating  things 
up,"  he  said,  "  and  they  are  pretty  wicked,  so  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  may  do :  you  may  catch  a  few ; 
catch  twelve,  and  put  'em  in  a  flower-pot  for  a  dun 
geon.  And  bring  'em  up  into  the  orchard  this  after 
noon,"  he  added,  as  an  afterthought.  Then  he  kiss 
ed  Katy  tenderly,  and  put  the  bur  baskets  in  the 
shadow  under  the  stile,  and  went  home  to  dinner, 
absorbed  in  thought. 

When  Katy  met  him  in  the  orchard  with  the  im 
prisoned  locusts,  he  had  decided  their  fate. 

"  My  uncle's  a  judge,"  he  said,  "and  he  hangs 
wicked  people.  So  we'll  hang  these  prisoners ;  for 
they  certainly  are  bad.  Only,  first,"  he  said,  his  face 
beginning  to  glow,  "  we  must  build  the  gallows  !" 

Katy  opened  her  mouth,  speechless.  Theophilus, 
however,  expected  no  comment.  He  led  the  way, 
knee-deep  through  a  rustling  patch  of  May-apples, 
to  a  shady  spot,  where  he  proceeded  to  drive  two 
laths  into  the  ground  as  uprights,  laying  another 
lath  over  them  for  a  cross-piece. 

"  There,  now  !"  he  said,  breathlessly.  "Of  course, 
Katy,  we  must  give  them  warning  first,  so  that  they 

19? 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

may  prepare  to  die.  My  uncle  does  that  when  he 
hangs  people.  Give  me  the  flower-pot,  and  I'll  tell 
them."  He  lifted  the  shingle  which  formed  the  door 
of  the  prison,  and  surveyed  the  captives,  tumbling 
and  crawling  over  each  other,  each  with  the  ominous 
black  J^on  its  membraneous  wings — that  W  which 
meant  war,  Katy's  mother  had  said.  "  It  means 
wicked,  I  guess,"  Theophilus  said,  sternly.  And  then, 
in  an  awful  voice,  he  bade  the  prisoners  "prepare 
to  die."  "  I  hope  it  won't  hurt  'em,"  he  added, 
slowly. 

"  What,  Theophilus  ?"  Katy  inquired. 

"  To  hang  them,  you  know." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Katy. 

"Do  you  think  it  will?" 

"  I  don't  know  just  how  it  do  feel,"  Katy  ad 
mitted. 

Theophilus  opened  and  shut  his  hands  nervously. 
"  I  don't  like  to  put  the  rope  around  their  necks," 
he  faltered. 

"  Oh,  lemme,"  Katy  said. 

"  It  isn't  fair  to  make  you  do  it.  Oh,  Katy,  let's 
let  'em  escape  !  If  we  take  the  stone  off  the  top  of 
the  shingle,  they  can  get  out,  and  we  can  play  it  was 
an  accident.  Play  one  of  them  is  a  great  general ; 
play  he  plans  an  escape — " 

"They're  wicked,  Theophilus,"  Katy  reminded 
him. 

"That's  so,"  said  Theophilus,  with  a  troubled  face. 

"And  I  don't  mind  putting  the  thread  on  'em," 
Katy  coaxed. 

"'Rope,'"  Theophilus  corrected  her.  "Are  you 
sure  you  don't  mind?  Had  you  just  as  lieve?" 

"  I  just  as  lieve  ;  I  rother"  Katy  said,  eagerly, 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Well,"  the  little  boy  said ;  but  his  voice  was  re 
luctant.  "  They  are  wicked — there's  no  use  playing 
they're  not ;  and  if  you  don't  mind  touching  'em — 

"  I'd  like  to,"  Katy  said,  with  animation. 

So  Theophilus  produced  a  spool  of  black  sewing- 
silk  which  he  had  secured  from  Miss  Hannah's  work- 
basket,  and  measuring  off  enough  "rope"  for  each 
victim,  instructed  Katy  how  she  should  fasten  it 
round  what  he  called  the  "necks"  of  the  unfort 
unate  insects ;  then  he  turned  his  back,  shivering 
and  clinching  his  hands,  his  face  pale  with  emotion. 

"  Katy,  don't  forget:  they  are  wicked"  he  kept  re 
minding  her,  "  and  so  they  ought  to  be  punished  ; 
it's  fair.  Are  the  prisoners  ready?" 

"Yes,  Theophilus  ;  I've  fixed  'em,"  said  Katy,  joy 
ously. 

"  You  must  say,  '  Yes,  my  lord,'  "  Theophilus  said, 
in  an  imperative  aside. 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  repeated  Katy. 

Theophilus,  with  a  majestic  tread,  turned  to  the 
gallows,  and  began  to  tie  each  piece  of  thread  to  the 
cross-tree  ;  but  his  hand  shook.  "  I  wonder  if  un 
cle  says  anything  to  'em  when  he  hangs  them  ?"  he 
murmured.  He  was  so  wretched  that  Katy  was 
moved  to  say, 

"  Theophilus,  let  me  tie  'em  up  for  you?  I'd  just 
as  lieve." 

"  No,"  he  answered — "  no  ;  I'm  a  judge,  like  un 
cle  ;  and  the  judge  has  to  hang  people  ;  my  uncle 
does  it  every  day."  He  tied  the  last  thread,  and  the 
wicked  locusts  began  to  spin  round  and  round  in 
their  black  silk  halters. 

The  two  children  were  holding  the  court  of  jus 
tice  down  in  the  orchard  ;  it  was  a  still,  warm  after- 

194 


"'so  YOU'RE  HANGING  THE  LOCUSTS?'" 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

noon,  the  sky  was  deeply  blue  and  without  a  cloud  ; 
the  grass  under  the  apple-tree  where  the  gallows 
stood  was  beaten  down,  but  it  grew  so  high  outside 
that  they  did  not  see  Judge  Morrison  coming  up  the 
path,  and  he  stood  still  a  moment  looking  at  them, 
and,  as  it  happened,  heard  Theophilus's  last  remark. 
At  first  he  did  not  understand  the  laths  and  the  un 
happy  locusts  swinging  back  and  forth  ;  but  his 
nephew's  words  enlightened  him.  He  laughed,  si 
lently,  thinking  of  his  peaceful  Orphans'  Court. 
"The  Judge  doesn't  have  a  chance,  unfortunately," 
he  said  to  himself;  and  then  brought  his  cane 
smashing  down  on  the  gallows. 

"Here,  what  are  you  about?" 

The  two  children  jumped  apart,  guiltily. 

"Who's  this  girl?"  the  Judge  demanded. 

"  It's  Katy  Murphy,"  Theophilus  said,  with  white 
lips. 

"  Well,  clear  out,"  Judge  Morrison  said.  "  I  don't 
want  you  loafing  on  my  place.  Do  you  hear  me?" 

Katy  ducked,  and  ran  as  fast  as  her  bare,  fat  legs 
could  carry  her,  bounding  across  the  orchard  grass, 
and  scrambling  over  the  gate  at  the  end  of  the 
path. 

"So  you're  hanging  the  locusts?"  inquired  the 
Judge,  contemptuously. 

"  Oh,"  said  Theophilus,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  do  not 
like  you ;"  then  he  turned  and  ran  after  Katy,  leav 
ing  his  uncle  feeling  as  though  a  humming-bird  had 
suddenly  attacked  him.  His  tight,  wrinkled  mouth 
relaxed  in  a  sort  of  smile.  "Well!"  he  said;  "he 
doesn't  like  me !"  He  cackled  to  himself  once  as  he 
climbed  the  hill.  He  had  not  been  so  diverted  in  a 
long  time. 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 


III 


So  that  was  how  the  Judge  began  to  get  acquainted 
with  his  nephew.  The  mimic  court  of  justice  in  the 
orchard  tickled  him  immensely,  and  Theophilus's 
enraged  candor  in  saying  he  did  not  like  him  awoke 
a  sense  of  humor  that  generally  only  responded  to 
the  bitternesses  and  meannesses  of  his  court-room. 
"O  most  excellent  Theophilus,"  he  said,  "how  many 
people  feel  that  but  don't  say  it !" 

He  began  to  watch  the  boy,  and  sometimes  threw 
a  condescending  word  at  him.  As  for  Theophilus, 
he  spoke  when  he  was  spoken  to,  and  once  or  twice 
in  his  small  voice,  unasked,  expressed  opinions  which 
were  not  complimentary  to  the  Judge : 

"  Uncle,  why  don't  you  say  '  Thank  you '  to  Aunt 
Hannah  ?  Father  told  me  always — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue !"  said  the  Judge. 

"You're  not  very  polite,"  said  Theophilus,  his 
heart  beating  hard,  but  his  voice  calm.  The  Judge 
put  down  his  book  and  looked  at  him,  the  drawing- 
string  around  his  puckered  mouth  relaxing. 

"Well!"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle.  The  child's 
courageous  dislike  entertained  him  greatly.  As  for 
Miss  Hannah,  she  was  so  frightened  she  could  only 
murmur :  "  My  dear  little  boy  !  Oh  do — oh  don't — 
oh,  brother,  he  doesn't  mean  it." 

Theophilus  did  not  corroborate  this  statement ;  he 
ate  his  bread-and-butter  in  silence,  and  planned  his 
plays  with  Katy,  and  thought  how  pleasant  it  would 
be  if  his  uncle  should  die,  and  Aunt  Hannah  should 
marry  some  kind  gentleman,  like  father,  and  have 
six  little  boys  and  six  little  girls  for  him  to  play 

196 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

with.  He  told  Miss  Hannah  so,  thoughtfully  ;  and 
her  old,  worn  face  colored  faintly,  and  she  said, 

"  Oh,  Theophilus,  now  do — now  don't  —  now,  you 
musn't — " 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I'm  going  to  get  married  myself  ; 
I'm  going  to  marry  Katy,  and  we'll  live  here  and 
take  our  meals  in  the  wash  -  house,  and  not  with 
uncle  ;  for  Katy  don't  like  uncle." 

Miss  Hannah  was  horrified ;  but  very  likely  The 
ophilus  did  not  hear  her  agitated  reproof  ;  he  was  ar 
ranging  a  new  play.  It  was  of  such  elaborate  char 
acter — revolving,  as  it  did,  upon  the  capture  of  Katy 
by  cannibals,  and  her  rescue  by  Theophilus — that  the 
next  afternoon,  when  he  and  Katy  acted  it  out,  sup 
per-time  came  and  went  and  he  was  all  unconscious 
of  it.  When  hunger  and  Katy  reminded  him  of  this 
oversight  he  went  into  the  Murphys'  kitchen,  and 
had  a  piece  of  fried  meat  and  a  potato,  sitting  by  the 
stove,  and  waited  upon  by  Mrs.  Murphy,  who  cuffed 
her  children  away  from  his  chair,  and  put  a  stool 
under  his  feet,  and  told  him  he  was  the  darlin'  boy, 
if  ever  there  was  one. 

"Ach,  Katy,  ye  spalpeen,  ye!  ye've  got  the  fine 
sweetheart !  When  are  ye's  going  to  set  up  house 
keeping  the  two  of  ye's?" 

"Very  soon,"  said  Theophilus.  "I'd  like  some 
more  tea,  Mrs.  Murphy.  Katy,  we'll  get  married 
next  week,  I  think." 

Mrs.  Murphy  winked  at  her  husband,  who  was 
filling  the  room  with  clouds  of  bad  tobacco  smoke, 
and  clapped  Theophilus  on  the  shoulder  with  her 
kind  big  hand.  "  An'  what  '11  the  Judge  say  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  what  he  says,"  Theophilus  an 
swered,  calmly.  "  Katy  and  I  don't  like  him.  He's 

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OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

an  unjust  judge.  Father  said  you  must  be  polite, 
no  matter  how  you  felt  inside.  So  I'm  polite  to  him. 
But  he  spoke  cross  to  Katy,  and  I  don't  like  him." 
Then  he  got  down  from  his  chair  and  embraced 
Katy  tenderly.  "  It's  pretty  dark  out-of-doors,"  he 
said,  with  a  sigh ;  and  Katy  offered  to  escort  him 
home.  He  looked  at  her  longingly,  for  the  shadows 
under  the  apple-trees  on  the  hill  were  very  black, 
but  shook  his  head,  and  went  timorously  out  into 
the  twilight. 

Meantime  Miss  Hannah  had  some  bad  moments : 

"Where's  that  child?  Hannah,  if  that  boy  can't 
be  on  time  for  his  meals,  he  can  go  without.  Do 
you  hear  ?" 

Then  the  Judge  opened  his  book,  and  added  some 
thing  in  a  sharp  voice  about  a  boarding  -  school. 
Poor  old  Hannah's  knees  trembled  ;  she  looked 
stealthily  out  of  the  window  between  every  mouth 
ful  ;  but  it  grew  darker  and  darker,  and  there  was 
no  sign  of  Theophilus. 

"Where  is  that  child?"  the  Judge  said  again,  an 
grily.  Miss  Hannah  looked  over  at  him  with  a  start, 
her  cowering  mouth  opening  in  astonishment.  His 
voice  was  anxious  !  It  was  such  an  amazing  revela 
tion  that  she  could  not  speak.  "Why,  brother's 
worried  !"  she  said  to  herself. 

The  Judge  did  not,  apparently,  miss  her  response. 
He  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  room ;  in  the  upper 
hall  he  stopped,  and,  leaning  over  the  banisters,  called 
down  to  her : 

"Where  does  that  child  sleep?" 

She  told  him,  tremulously ;  and  a  moment  after 
wards  heard  him  tramping  overhead,  and  then  the 
door  of  Theophilus's  room  opened  and  shut.  Evi- 

198 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

dently  he  had  thought  the  boy  might  be  there  ;  but 
he  came  tramping  back  again. 

"  Has  he  come  in  yet?"  he  called  down. 

"  No,  brother.  Oh  yes,  brother !  Here  he  is. 
Oh,  Theophilus,  where—" 

The  library  door  banged. 

"  Theophilus,  brother  has  been  asking  about  you," 
Miss  Hannah  said,  breathlessly.  "  My  dear  little 
boy,  don't  you  think  you  ought,  perhaps,  to  be  a 
little  more  punctual?  I've  saved  some  supper  for 
you — " 

"  I  don't  want  any.  Katy's  mother  gave  me  some. 
What  was  uncle  in  my  room  for  ?  I  saw  the  light — " 
Theophilus  was  out  of  breath,  for  the  orchard  had 
been  very  dark  ;  but  without  waiting  for  a  reply 
he  ran  up-stairs,  and  was  back  again  in  two  minutes. 
"  Aunt,  he  has  taken —  He's  a  thief  !  He's  stolen — 
my  pipe  /"  Then  he  burst  out  crying,  shaking  with 
sobs,  and  stamping  with  anger.  "  He's  a  thief  !  It 
was  on  the  mantel-piece.  It's  no  fairs,  going  to  my 
room.  He's  stolen — my  pipe  !" 

Miss  Hannah  was  at  her  wits'  end.  "  If  brother 
hears  him,  he'll  send  him  to  school,"  she  thought,  in 
despairing  terror.  Then  suddenly  Theophilus  was 
calm. 

"  I  won't  cry  any  more,"  he  said,  in  a  shaken 
whisper  ;  "  but — " 

And  Miss  Hannah  was  satisfied,  hearing  nothing 
threatening  in  that  "  but." 

That  night,  when  she  was  asleep,  the  little  boy 
arose,  and,  creeping  from  his  closet  of  a  room  across 
her  floor,  gained  the  entry  ;  beyond,  on  the  right  of 
the  wide  hall,  was  the  Judge's  library.  Theophilus 

199 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

went  stealthily  over  the  boards,  stopping  when  one 
creaked  loudly  under  his  bare  feet,  and  panting — 
and  then  creeping  on  again.  It  seemed  to  the  child 
that  it  was  after  midnight,  so  long  had  he  been  lying 
awake,  hating  his  uncle  ;  but  it  was  scarcely  eleven 
o'clock,  and  Judge  Morrison  was  working  hard  over 
his  papers,  with  no  thought  of  bed  for  a  couple  of 
hours.  Theophilus  softly  turned  the  knob  of  the 
door,  and  pushed  it  a  little,  and  then  a  little  more. 
The  instant  blur  of  light  confused  him  ;  he  had  ex 
pected  to  feel  about  for  his  pipe  in  the  darkness. 
But  he  did  not  see  his  uncle  standing  in  a  shadowy 
alcove  of  the  room.  The  Judge  was  drawing  a  book 
from  one  of  his  shelves.  As  the  child  entered  he 
stopped,  his  hand  in  mid -air,  and  watched  him. 
Theophilus,  breathing  hard,  and  clinching  his  hands, 
went  at  once  to  the  library  table.  It  was  piled  with 
documents;  four  or  five  battered  japanned  filing- 
cases  held  brown  linen  envelopes  tied  with  red 
tapes,  and  stuffed  in,  in  overflowing  and  convenient 
disorder ;  in  the  middle  was  a  dusty  inkstand,  with 
a  bunch  of  quills  beside  it ;  in  front  of  it  the  papers 
were  pushed  to  the  right  and  left  to  make  room  for 
work.  Purdon's  Digest  was  open,  propped  on  an 
unsteady  heap  of  other  books ;  on  the  floor,  leaning 
up  against  the  desk  in  tottering  piles,  were  stacks  of 
reports  ;  every  chair,  except  that  which  the  Judge 
used,  was  full  of  pamphlets,  and  an  old  sofa  was  lit 
tered  with  bundles  of  papers  ;  everything  was  thick 
with  dust,  and  in  inextricable  disorder.  The  Judge, 
being  master  in  his  own  house,  allowed  no  woman  to 
"red  up";  so  he  knew  just  where  everything  was. 

Theophilus  opened  a  drawer  in  the  writing-table 
softly,  and  looked  in ;  and  then  another  ;  no  pipe. 

200 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

There  was  a  desk  on  the  table — one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  desks  with  a  flap  that  folds  back,  making 
a  slope,  covered  with  frayed  and  ink-spotted  velvet. 
He  tried  to  lift  the  inner  lid,  which  stuck — yielded — 
and  then  : 

"  Well,  young  man  ?" 

The  lid  dropped,  clattering.  Theophilus  stared 
at  him,  speechless.  His  uncle's  eyes  narrowed,  and 
he  showed  his  yellow  old  teeth  in  a  noiseless  laugh. 

"You  are  beginning  early,  most  excellent  Theophi 
lus  ;  you'll  end  as  your  locusts  did."  The  Judge  was 
more  diverted  than  he  had  been  in  many  a  long  day. 
"Very  likely  you  will  come  before  me,  sir ;  and  you 
may  be  sure  I  will  do  my  duty  !" 

Theophilus  looked  as  though  he  were  going  to 
faint ;  but  he  did  not  ask  for  mercy. 

"  Yes  ;  you  are  beginning  early — smoking,  house- 
breaking —  What  was  it,  by-the-way,  you  hoped  to 
steal ?" 

"You,"  said  Theophilus,  his  teeth  chattering  in  his 
head,  "are  a  thief.  You  took  my  pipe." 

"  Hah  !"  said  the  Judge  ;  "  you  mean  to  file  a  cross 
suit  ?  Very  good,  sir.  What  is  this  about  a  pipe  ? 
I  don't  allow  boys  to  smoke  in  my  house." 

"  I  don't  smoke,"  said  Theophilus,  in  a  whisper. 

The  Judge  dropped  his  banter. 

"  Now  don't  lie.     If  you're  a  liar,  I'll — " 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  child,  "  you  are  certainly  a  very 
bad  man.  You  stole  my  pipe,  and  say  I  tell  stories. 
You  tell  stories  yourself  ;  and  you  are  a  thief ;  it's 
no  fairs.  Give  me  my  pipe  or" — the  little  boy  was 
deadly  pale,  sJiaking  with  anger  and  hate — "or — very 
likely  I  shall — probably — be  obliged  to — to  kill  you, 
you  know."  Then  he  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears. 
14  201 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

The  Judge  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  pride : 
courage,  temper,  truth  —  he  ought  to  amount  to 
something. 

"  If  you  don't  smoke,  why  do  you  have  a  pipe  ?" 

Silence. 

"Answer  me,  you  cub  !" 

No  reply. 

"Answer  me,  or  you  won't  get  your  pipe.  Why 
do  you  have  it?" 

Theophilus  looked  at  him,  but  said  nothing. 

The  Judge  was  more  and  more  pleased.  "  Well, 
you  can  clear  out.  I  shall  keep  the  pipe,  and  after 
this  I'll  lock  my  door.  Clear  out !  I've  had  enough 
of  you.  Wait  a  minute.  Why  were  you  late  for  sup 
per?  As  long  as  I  feed  you,  sir,  you  will  be  on  time 
at  your  meals.  Do  you  hear?  Where  were  you  ?" 

"At  Mrs.  Murphy's,"  said  Theophilus. 

His  uncle's  face  darkened.  "  You  are  not  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  those  people.  If  I  hear  of  your 
playing  with  any  of  those  Shantytown  ragamuffins, 
I'll— I'll  attend  to  you  !" 

Theophilus  shuffled  back  across  the  room,  and 
shut  the  door  softly  behind  him. 

The  Judge  sat  down  at  his  table,  and  his  mean, 
cold  face  relaxed  into  something  like  a  smile. 

"  Spunk  !"  he  said.  "  Confound  him,  he'll  amount 
to  something !" 

IV 

"  It's  my  father's  pipe,"  Theophilus  told  Katy 
afterwards,  "  and  uncle  is  a  wicked  man." 

u  But  if  you're  not  usin'  of  it,  Theophilus,"  she  said, 
wonderingly,  "  I  wouldn't  be  takin'  on  about  it." 

202 


K 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

He  looked  at  her  wistfully,  but  he  did  not  try  to 
explain.  Instead,  he  told  her  that  he  wished  to  get 
married  at  once. 

"  I'd  just  as  lieve,"  said  Katy. 

"We'll  get  married,  and  I'll  keep  you  up  in  the 
garret,"  said  Theophilus.  "  He'll  not  know.  Then, 
when  I  get  some  money,  we'll  go  away.  Let's  play 
this  morning  that  you  are  a  princess  turned  into  a 
dragon.  Play  I  am  a  prince  coming  to  rescue  you, 
and  you  roar  and  eat  me  ;  then  you  turn  into  a 
beautiful  princess  —  no,  because  where  would  I  be  if 
you  had  eaten  me  !  Play  you  roar,  and  I'll  cut  off 
your  frightful  head  ;  then  I'll  die,  and  we'll  both 
come  to  life,  and  you'll  be  a  princess." 

Katy  nodded. 

"  Play  we're  dead  first,"  said  Theophilus,  changing 
his  plot  as  he  proceeded.  "  We'll  dig  our  graves,  and 
lie  down  in  'em  to  see  how  it  feels  to  be  dead." 

Katy  opened  her  mouth  with  interest.  Theophi 
lus  reflected  that  it  would  be  hard  to  dig  his  grave  in 
the  matted  orchard  grass,  and  led  Katy  up  into  the 
deserted  and  neglected  garden.  It  would  be  easy  to 
make  a  hole  in  the  soft  black  earth  under  the  larches, 
where  the  grass  grew  thin  and  pale.  They  picked 
some  dandelions  on  the  way,  and  Theophilus  tore 
the  long  hollow  stems  into  shreds,  and  passed  them 
between  his  lips  to  make  them  curl.  "  They're  aw 
fully  nasty  and  bitter,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  don't  mind. 
Here,  let  me  hang  'em  over  your  ears,  Katy.  Prin 
cesses  always  have  curls."  Katy  allowed  herself  to 
be  decorated  in  silent  joy  ;  to  feel  the  dandelion 
curls  brushing  against  her  cheeks  made  her  heart 
beat  with  pride.  Then  she  sat  down  in  the  grass  and 
matched  Theophilus.  He  grew  so  happy  in  his  dig- 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

ging  that  he  forgot  his  wrongs  and  talked  eagerly  as 
he  worked.  He  said  he  meant,  as  soon  as  he  got 
time,  to  dig  under  a  big  flat  stone  in  the  garden,  be 
cause  he  believed  there  were  things  buried  under  it. 

"  What  things,  Theophilus  ?"  Katy  inquired. 

"  Oh,  dead  Indians,  and  gold,"  said  Theophilus, 
impatiently.  "  It  doesn't  matter  just  what.  It's 
treasures.  But  I'm  so  busy  I  don't  get  time  to  dig 
'em  up." 

"  An'  why  was  they  left  under  the  stone  then  ?" 
Katy  inquired. 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  they  be  left  there  ?"  he  re 
torted,  and  enlarged  so  upon  the  treasures  that  Katy 
was  convinced.  She  leaned  her  chin  in  her  two  little 
dirty  hands,  and  crossed  her  bare  feet  over  each 
other,  as  a  duck  does,  and  listened. 

"  It's  pretty  hot,"  said  Theophilus  ;  "  I  guess  we 
won't  each  have  a  grave  ;  we'll  just  get  buried  turn 
about."  And  then  he  stopped,  and  stood  up  straight, 
and  wiped  his  little  forehead,  and  said,  in  a  manly 
voice,  "By  George,  it's  hard  work.  By  George." 
Then  he  bade  Katy  get  up  and  be  measured  for  her 
grave,  for  she  was  taller  than  he. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  could  be  buried  by  putting 
your  legs  under  you  ?"  he  asked.  "  It's  pretty  hot, 
digging." 

"  Honest,  I  can't,"  she  said  anxiously ;  "  my  legs 
'ain't  got  no  hinge  in  'em  between  there  and  there  ; 
honest  they  'ain't,  Theophilus." 

"  Well,"  said  the  grave-digger,  bitterly,  "  I'll  make 
it  a  little  longer.  But  it's  long  enough  for  me,  Katy 
Murphy  !" 

Katy  was  in  despair  lest  she  was  going  to  lose  her 
chance  to  be  buried,  and  her  big,  gentle,  stupid  eyes 

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JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

filled  up  ;  at  sight  of  which  Theophilus  sprung  from 
the  grave  and  embraced  her. 

"  You  shall  be  buried  I  Now  don't  you  cry,  Katy. 
I  don't  mind  making  room  for  your  legs  ;  only,  they 
are  a  little  long." 

Katy  cheered  up  at  once,  and  listened  to  Theophi 
lus  telling  his  story  as  he  dug — a  prince  and  a  prin 
cess,  a  cruel  king,  a  jealous  fairy,  a  poisoned  cup,  and 
— an  open  grave  ! 

"  Now  it's  ready,"  Theophilus  cried,  exultant, 
throwing  down  his  spade  and  preparing  to  step  in  ; 
then  he  stopped  and  looked  at  Katy.  "  You  may  get 
in  first,"  he  said,  with  an  effort  •'  "  but  you  won't  stay 
very  long,  will  you  ?  Because  I  did  dig  it,  you  know. 
Still,  you  may  stay  as  long  as  you  want,  Katy." 

Katy,  with  delightful  tremors,  stepped  into  the 
shallow  trench  and  lay  down.  "  Ouch — ain't  it  cold  !" 
she  said.  "  There's  worrums  !  O-o-w — " 

"  Don't  talk,"  said  Theophilus,  anxiously  ;  "  you're 
dead." 

Katy  shut  her  eyes  tightly,  and  sighed.  Then  she 
said, 

"  May  I  get  out,  Theophilus?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  want  me  to  shovel  in  the  dirt  ?" 
he  reproached  her  ;  but  she  squealed  and  scrambled 
up  at  the  idea  of  such  a  thing.  And  Theophilus, 
elate  and  solemn,  with  shining  eyes,  stretched  him 
self  in  her  place  ;  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  fringe  of 
thin  grass  on  the  edge  of  the  grave,  the  dark,  drooping 
branches  of  the  larch,  the  gray,  cloudy  sky  beyond — 

"  Theophilus  !"  whispered  Katy.  "  Oh,  my  !  here's 
somebody  !" 

Theophilus  frowned  and  sat  up.  It  was  Judge 
Morrison. 

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OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"Theophilus!  who  is  this  girl?  Here,  you,  clear 
out !  What  did  I  tell  you,  Theophilus  ?  I  will  not 
have  this  scum  about.  Girl,  do  you  hear?  Clear 
out !"  He  raised  his  stick  as  he  spoke.  Katy 
shrieked,  dived  past  him,  and  ran.  Theophilus  came 
up  to  him  slowly,  then  suddenly  lifted  a  trembling 
leg  and  kicked  at  him.  The  Judge  took  him  by  the 
collar  and  shook  him,  and  then  held  him  off  at  arm's- 
length,  and  laughed,  his  eyes  lighting  with  apprecia 
tion. 

After  that  there  was  no  question  of  Judge  Morri 
son's  feeling  towards  his  nephew.  The  boy  amused 
him,  and  then  interested  him  ;  his  courage  and  can 
dor  gave  him  a  thrill  of  pride  ;  and  by-and-by, 
strangely  enough,  in  his  withered,  mean  old  heart 
there  came  something  which  he  did  not  recognize, 
having  never  felt  it :  to  be  sure,  it  showed  itself  only 
in  disappointed  irritation  if  Theophilus  appeared 
stupid  ;  in  impatience  if  the  boy  looked  tired,  which 
he  did  very  often  ;  in  anger  if  he  chanced  to  be  late, 
as  he  frequently  was,  for  supper.  "  Broken  his  neck, 
probably,"  the  Judge  would  say,  and  look  out  of  the 
window  half  a  dozen  times  with  a  snarl  of  anxiety. 
Irritation  and  contempt  are  not  often  interpreters  of 
love  ;  certainly  it  was  a  good  while  before  the  Judge 
recognized  them.  He  only  realized  that  he  thought 
of  the  child  very  often  ;  but  he  used  to  tell  himself 
that  that  was  because  Theophilus  was  a  nuisance. 

Still,  he  told  Hannah  to  get  the  boy  better  clothes 
— though  he  forgot  to  give  her  any  money  for  the 
purpose  ;  and  he  snapped  at  her  because  Theophilus 
did  not  eat  enough.  Indeed,  he  watched  the  child 
constantly,  his  keen  cold  eyes  softening  under  a  sort 

206 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

of  film,  as  an  eagle's,  when  it  looks  at  its  young. 
Once,  at  midnight,  he  came  knocking  at  Miss  Han 
nah's  door.  "  I  want  to  feel  that  child's  pulse,"  he 
said  ;  "  he  looked  flushed  at  supper,  and  you  are  such 
a  fool,  Hannah,  you'd  let  him  sicken  on  your  hands." 

Miss  Hannah,  palpitating  with  fright,  sat  up  in 
bed  and  bade  him  enter. 

"  I  think  he's  well,  brother,"  she  said  ;  "  he  said 
he  was." 

"As  if  either  of  you  had  sense  enough  to  know 
anything  about  it  !"  the  Judge  retorted.  He  came 
in  and  went  shuffling  across  the  room  to  Theophilus's 
door — a  long,  lean  figure  in  a  gray  flannel  wrapper  ; 
he  had  a  palm-leaf  fan  in  one  hand,  and  a  red  silk 
handkerchief,  and  he  carried  a  tall  brass  candlestick 
— the  old-fashioned  kind,  with  a  hood,  and  a  spring 
inside.  He  had  a  vague  idea  that  the  boy  should  be 
fanned  if  he  was  feverish,  and  perhaps  his  head  ought 
to  be  tied  up.  Theophilus  was  sleeping  placidly,  the 
flush  all  gone,  and  his  face  on  its  low  pillow  looking  a 
little  thin. 

The  Judge  came  back,  blowing  out  his  light  as  he 
walked.  "  He's  to  have  a  tonic.  Do  you  hear  ? 
Have  Willy  King  see  him.  A  funeral  is  expensive," 
he  ended,  with  a  grin. 

Meantime  Theophilus  paid  very  little  attention  to 
his  uncle  ;  he  did  not  recognize  any  overtures  for 
friendship.  Katy  had  been  banished  (not  that  that 
made  any  great  difference,  because  Theophilus  could 
play  down  in  Shantytown  almost  as  well  as  in  the 
orchard)  ;  Aunt  Hannah  was  scolded  ;  he  himself 
was  laughed  at  ;  his  pipe  was  gone  ;  so  what  did  he 
care  about  his  uncle  ?  Indeed,  his  bitterness  grew 
as  he  discovered  the  practical  effect  of  Katy's  fright 

207 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

the  day  she  had  been  buried  :  she  refused  for  a  long 
time  to  be  married.  She  could  not,  she  said,  go  and 
live  in  the  garret,  because  "  He  "  would  find  her  and 
lick  her.  Kill  her,  maybe.  No,  she  would  not  get 
married  ! 

But  Theophilus  pleaded  with  her  with  a  passion  of 
entreaty.  "Oh,  please,  Katy.  Don't  say  'no  '  ;  oh, 
please — please,  Katy  !"  And  by-and-by  there  was  no 
gainsaying  him. 

"  Well,"  said  Katy,  with  a  sigh. 

"  You  put  on  your  Sunday  dress,"  her  lover  told 
her,  "and  come  to  the  gate  after  supper,  and  I'll  be 
there  and  take  you  up  to  the  garret.  We'll  play  it's 
a  railroad  journey." 

"  Father  Williams  must  be  gone  to  first,"  said 
Katy. 

"  Oh,  he  might  tell  on  us,"  objected  Theophilus. 
But  Katy  said  again  that  folks  had  to  go  to  Father 
Williams  before  they  were  married. 

"Why?"  said  Theophilus. 

But  on  this  point  Katy  was  vague  ;  she  had  heard 
her  mother  find  fault  with  girls  for  not  "  going  to 
the  priest "  with  their  sweethearts  ;  that  was  all 
Katy  knew. 

"  Well,"  said  Theophilus,  reluctantly  ;  "  it's  too 
late  to-day  ;  but  we'll  go  to-morrow.  I'm  going  to 
be  busy  putting  the  provisions  into  the  garret  this 
afternoon."  Then  he  kissed  Katy  tenderly,  and  left 
her  sitting  on  the  fence,  scratching  her  bare  legs  and 
reflecting  upon  her  wedding. 

The  provisioning  of  the  garret  was  not  difficult. 
Miss  Hannah  had  gone  to  the  sewing  society  that 
afternoon,  and  of  course  the  Judge  was  not  at  home  ; 
so  the  little  boy  had  the  gaunt,  echoing  old  house  to 

308 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

himself.  If  he  had  not  been  so  interested  and  ex 
cited,  he  might  have  been  frightened  at  the  silence 
and  emptiness.  Through  the  wide  window  in  the 
upper  hall  the  afternoon  sunshine  poured  in,  and  lay 
in  a  dusty  pool  at  the  foot  of  the  garret  stairs  ;  it 
pleased  Theophilus  to  say  that  he  had  to  wade 
through  this  pool  as  he  carried  up  his  supplies.  The 
stairs  creaked  under  his  eager  feet  as  he  lugged  up 
one  burden  after  another  —  raw  potatoes,  a  loaf  of 
bread,  eggs,  apples,  a  pitcher  of  water.  Then  he 
brought  some  bedclothes  from  the  press  in  the  linen- 
closet —  his  little  arms  full,  and  the  blankets  and 
coverlets  trailing  on  the  ground,  so  that  he  walked 
on  them  and  stumbled  a  dozen  times  before  he 
reached  the  garret. 

It  was  nearly  five  when  all  was  ready,  and  then  the 
impatient  bridegroom  went  to  claim  his  bride. 

She  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  gate  ;  she  had  put 
on  her  red  plaid  dress,  and  a  little  red  sack,  and  her 
hat  with  a  feather  in  it ;  her  feet  and  legs  were  bare, 
however,  because  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  wear 
her  new  shoes  when  it  was  not  Sunday  ;  she  had  an 
apple  in  her  hand,  and  her  round  little  face  looked 
up  trustfully  at  her  bridegroom.  Theophilus  hurried 
her  up  the  path  with  such  anxiety  in  his  manner  that 
Katy  began  to  be  frightened. 

"  Is  He  there,  Theophilus  ?"  she  said,  panting  with 
their  run  up  the  hill. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Theophilus.  "Don't  be  scared, 
Katy.  I  won't  let  him  hurt  you.  If  he  should  attack 
you,  I  will  throw  him  down  and  tie  him.  Now, 
Katy,  you  climb  on  the  back  woodshed,  and  I'll  help 
you  into  the  window  in  my  room,  and  then  we'll  go 
up  to  the  garret." 

209 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Katy  was  stolidly  obedient.  It  would  have  seemed 
simpler  to  go  in  the  back  door  and  walk  up-stairs, 
but  Theophilus  preferred  this  dangerous  mode  of 
entering ;  so  she  had  nothing  to  say.  When  she 
found  herself  in  the  garret,  however,  her  eyes  wi 
dened  with  interest,  and  a  little  stir  of  imagination 
made  her  suggest  that  they  put  a  chair  against  the 
door,  for  fear  the  enemy  should  break  in.  But 
Theophilus  objected. 

"  No ;  if  he  found  the  door  locked,  he'd  think 
maybe  we  were  here  ;  if  we  hear  him  coming,  we'll 
hide  behind  the  trunks." 

There  was  plenty  of  opportunity  to  hide  in  the 
garret.  It  was  a  great  loft,  extending,  without  any 
partitions,  over  the  whole  house ;  two  chimney- 
stacks,  rough  with  plaster  and  gray  with  dust  and 
cobwebs,  stood,  half  -  way  from  the  centre,  at  each 
end. 

"They  are  our  breastworks  to  the  foe,"  said  The 
ophilus.  However,  there  was  no  need  to  hide,  for  no 
dreadful  footstep  told  them  of  the  approach  of  the 
enemy.  They  ate  their  supper  and  then  cuddled 
down  on  the  pillows  Theophilus  had  brought,  and 
slept  until  the  eastern  window  began  to  grow  into  a 
shining  blue  oblong  that  opened  into  heaven. 


The  real  alarm  did  not  begin  down-stairs  until 
nearly  eight,  when  Mrs.  Murphy  appeared,  apolo 
gizing  and  crying.  Was  Miss  Morrison  after 
knowin'  where  her  Katy  was  ?  The  young  one  had 
lit  out,  and  the  holy  angels  would  tell  Miss  Morrison 

210 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

that  Mrs.  Murphy  didn't  know  where  she  was,  no 
more  than  the  dead  ;  onless  she  was  with  the  young 
gentleman,  who  was  after  sayin'  he  was  going  to 
marry  her. 

The  Judge,  who  had  been  angry  because  Theophi- 
lus  was  late  for  supper,  was  immensely  diverted  at 
Mrs.  Murphy's  tale,  and  bade  her  go  and  hunt  for 
the  children  in  the  orchard,  promising  the  boy  a  can 
ing,  and  threatening  Katy  with  the  House  of  Cor 
rection  ;  by-and-by  he  took  a  lantern  and  went  out 
himself,  looking  through  the  shrubberies,  and  nearly 
falling  into  Theophilus's  open  grave.  The  jar  and 
wrench  of  his  stumble,  and  the  flash  of  remembrance 
of  the  little  still  figure  lying  there,  made  him  sud 
denly  keenly  alarmed,  and  so,  of  course,  angry  again  ; 
but  anger  did  not  help  matters.  All  that  night  they 
looked,  and  beat  through  the  woods,  and  flashed  lan 
terns  along  the  river-bank,  and  called  and  shouted  ; 
the  Judge  was  dreadfully  silent,  and  Miss  Hannah 
prayed  ;  but  no  children  were  found. 

The  next  day  Theophilus  and  Katy  ate  and  drank 
and  played — their  game  being  that  Theophilus  was 
a  hunter,  and  caught  apples  in  traps  in  shadowy 
caves  under  the  rafters,  and  brought  them  home  to 
his  wife.  Katy  yawned  in  the  afternoon,  and  re 
minded  her  husband  of  Father  Williams,  and  began 
to  get  rather  tired  of  being  married.  So,  towards 
dusk,  Theophilus  said  they  would  try  to  get  out  and 
"  go  to  the  priest ";  it  was  as  they  were  coming  softly 
down-stairs  that  they  suddenly  heard  voices  in  the 
library,  and  darted  back  for  shelter  to  their  garret. 
But  Katy  was  restless  ;  in  a  few  minutes  she  insisted 
upon  crawling  out  again  on  to  the  staircase.  The 
ophilus  went  after  her  and  plucked  at  her  sleeve. 

211 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  He'll  catch  you  !    Come  away." 

"  Don't,"  Katy  said,  crossly. 

Theophilus  crept  back  and  sat  down  on  a  trunk. 
The  garret  was  getting  dark  ;  those  caves  under  the 
rafters  looked  very  black  ;  as  for  what  might  lurk  in 
them,  Theophilus  dared  not  trust  his  imagination. 
He  felt  that  if  he  began  to  think  of  their  possibili 
ties,  his  mind  would  decide  upon  dead  pirates.  Why 
pirates,  why  dead,  Theophilus  did  not  know;  he  only 
felt  that  that  way  terror  lay. 

"I  mustn't  get  scared,"  he  told  himself,  breathing 
hard,  and  picking  with  nervous  little  fingers  at  the 
rotting  leather  of  the  old  trunk.  When  he  could  not 
stand  the  silence  and  loneliness  any  longer,  he  came 
cautiously  out  to  Katy  again. 

"I  can  hear  'em  talkin'!"  she  whispered,  excitedly. 
"  She's  takin'  on  awful." 

"  Come  back,"  whispered  Theophilus  ;  "  it's  no 
fairs  ;  they  don't  know  you're  hearing  them." 

Katy  looked  at  him  scornfully. 

"  An'  would  I  be  listening  if  they  did  ?  Theophi 
lus,  she's  cryin'  !" 

And,  indeed,  poor  old  Miss  Hannah's  sobs  reached 
her  nephew's  ear — for  the  library  door  was  ajar.  At 
this  he  took  his  wife  by  her  arm  and  dragged  her  back. 

"  I  must  tell  Aunt  Hannah,"  he  said,  in  great  agi 
tation  ;  "I  don't  want  her  to  cry.  When  she  goes  to 
bed,  I'll  go  down  and  tell  her  we  are  married,  and 
living  up  here  ;  but  she  mustn't  tell." 

u  An'  leave  me  alone  in  the  dark  ?"  gasped  Katy ; 
and  then,  suddenly,  she  began  to  cry.  "  I'd  'a'  brung 
a  candle  'stead  of  all  them  potatoes,  if  it  had  been 
me  was  doing  it,"  she  said.  Then  she  reproached 
Theophilus  for  telling  her  to  wear  her  Sunday 

3J3 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

clothes.  "They'll  be  shabbying  on  me,"  said  Katy. 
She  moaned  that  she  did  not  like  living  in  a  garret, 
and  that  she  wished  she  had  never  got  married. 
"  I'm  going  home  to  my  mother,"  she  sobbed. 

Theophilus  stood  beside  her  in  despair.  He  had 
never  seen  Katy  in  the  role  of  her  sex.  He  got  down 
on  his  knees,  and  put  his  little  arms  around  her,  and 
tried  to  reason  with  his  bride — as  other  husbands 
have  done  before  him,  and  with  like  success.  Katy 
wept  more  loudly  than  ever. 

"  I  don't  like  being  married  ;  and  I  don't  like  po 
tatoes  that  ain't  been  boiled  ;  and  I  don't  like  havin' 
no  bed  to  sleep  in,  only  them  pillows  and  things 
which  ain't  no  real  bed ;  and  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  stay. 
I'm  going  home  to — my — mother !"  Katy's  sobs  were 
heart-rending.  Theophilus  was  pale  with  misery. 

"Why,  you  wouldn't  —  oh,  Katy,  you  wouldn't 
leave  me  all  alone  up  here  in  the  dark  ?"  The  poor 
young  husband's  voice  was  broken  with  emotion  ;  he 
had  forgotten  the  open  door,  and  the  wail  of  Katy's 
sobs  woke  only  the  fear  that  his  domestic  happiness 
was  threatened — not  that  the  enemy  might  hear  her. 

"  I  got  to,  Theophilus  ;  I  don't  like  it.  Honest,  I 
don't.  Oh,  Theophilus,  change  to  Nelly  for  a  wife. 
She'll  do  ye  ;  she'll  not  mind  the  dark." 

"  No,  she  won't  do  me,"  he  answered,  tremulously  ; 
"  I  don't  want  to  change  to  Nelly  ;  she  don't  play 
nicely  at  all ;  and  she's  always  talking.  I  don't  want 
a  wife  that  talks."  (Ah,  Theophilus,  how  many  men 
discover  this  when  it  is  too  late  to  "  change  to  Nelly  " !) 

"Well,  anyway,  I'm  going  home  to  my  mother  T 
wailed  Katy  ;  and  this  time  the  enemy  heard. 

The  Judge  had  been  greatly  shaken  by  this  day  of 
anxiety ;  the  fact  that  the  children  were  not  imme- 

213 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

diately  and  easily  found  had  led  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  must  have  wandered  in  the  darkness  along 
the  bank  of  the  river  —  and  the  black,  deep,  quick- 
flowing  little  river  knew  the  rest. 

"He's  drowned,"  the  Judge  said  to  himself  over 
and  over  when,  towards  dusk,  he  sat  in  his  library, 
his  head  bent  on  his  breast.  "  I've  lost  him,"  he 
said,  and  drew  in  his  lips,  and  played  a  tattoo  on  the 
arms  of  his  chair.  "Lost  him  —  lost  him."  It  was 
such  a  wanton  and  unnecessary  loss ;  if  the  boy  had 
fallen  sick  and  died,  one  might  say  "  Providence," 
and  know  a  sort  of  dull  acquiescence.  But  this  was 
pure  carelessness ;  there  was  no  need  for  such  a  ca 
lamity  ;  the  child  had  been  neglected.  "  Hannah 
neglected  him,"  he  said  to  himself ;  "  the  fool !  why 
couldn't  she  have  looked  after  him?  She  allowed 
him  to  play  with  that  little  Murphy  devil.  I'm  glad 
there's  one  less  of  them,  anyway  ;  she's  drowned,  too, 
thank  God  !  Well,  I'll  clean  that  place  out.  They've 
killed  him — Hannah  and  those  people  between  them. 
I  wish  Mary'd  lived ;  she  would  have  looked  after 
him." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Mary  was  somehow  respon 
sible  ;  if  she  had  stayed  at  home  and  behaved  herself, 
she  could  have  taken  care  of  the  child,  he  thought, 
dully  ;  so  confused  by  this  sudden  meeting  of  love 
and  selfishness,  that  whirled  like  two  contrary  and 
tumultuous  streams  through  his  dry  old  heart,  that 
he  forgot  that  if  Mary  had  stayed  at  home  The- 
ophilus  would  not  have  been  at  all.  He  looked  up 
when,  with  despair  in  her  face,  Miss  Hannah  came  in. 

"  They  haven't  heard  anything  yet,  brother,"  she 
said.  "  Oh,  brother,  what  do  you  think  ?" 

"  I  think  that  your  promising  nephew  is  drowned, 
214 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

my  dear  sister."  His  lips  curled  back  from  his  teeth 
as  he  spoke,  and  there  was  a  gray  pallor  under  his 
leathery  skin. 

Old  Miss  Hannah  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  reports, 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  The  Judge 
glared  at  her ;  then  he  said  fiercely,  under  his  breath, 
"damn  you."  Yet  they  had  never  been  so  near 
each  other  before. 

Then,  suddenly,  from  up  above  them,  somewhere 
in  the  darkness,  a  shrill,  childish  wail  wavered  faintly, 
and  dropped,  and  rose  again.  The  two  started  to 
their  feet  together,  and  listened,  breathlessly. 


VI 

No  doubt  the  reaction  from  anxiety,  and  the  mor 
tification  of  remembering  how  shaken  he  had  been, 
made  the  Judge  harder  than  ever.  He  had  no  pity  ; 
perhaps,  even,  he  had  no  anger,  which  would  have 
been  humanizing  in  its  way  ;  he  had  mere  disgust 
and  determination.  He  "  cleared  that  place  out " 
without  a  day's  delay.  "  Pack  !"  he  said  ;  and  the 
Murphys  packed.  They  did  not  know  enough  to  use 
the  weapon  of  the  law  to  make  delay  ;  and,  besides, 
who  could  use  the  law  against  a  judge  ? 

"  He'll  be  putting  us  in  jail,"  said  Mrs.  Murphy, 
quaking  and  packing  ;  "  and  it's  your  doin',  ye  spal 
peen  !"  she  said,  shrilly,  to  Katy  ;  and  cuffed  her 
soundly. 

"You  are  to  be  off  my  premises  by  nine  o'clock 
Saturday  morning.  I  give  you  twenty-four  hours' 
notice,"  Judge  Morrison  had  told  Mr.  Murphy,  who 
was  too  drunk  to  do  more  than  hiccough, 

215 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"Jest  as  you  say,  yer  honor  ;  jest  as  you — ach  !— « 
say." 

And  Theophilus? 

When  that  little  sound  of  weeping  had  struck  his 
ear  the  Judge  had  hurried,  stumbling  and  breathless, 
into  the  garret.  There  had  been  a  blank  minute  of 
rage  ;  then  he  had  flung  Katy  to  one  side,  saying 
viciously  something  Theophilus  did  not  hear.  Then 
he  clutched  his  nephew's  arm  in  a  cruel  grip,  and 
storming  and  threatening  for  sheer  relief,  dragged 
him  down  to  his  library.  There  he  spoke  his  mind. 

Theophilus  sighed  once  or  twice,  and  looked  out  of 
the  window,  but  said  not  a  word  until  the  Judge  had 
finished.  Then,  in  a  voice  curiously  like  his  uncle's, 
he  said  :  "  You  ain't  fair.  I  am  going  to  tell  God  on 
you."  And  waited  for  more  abuse  ;  but  none  came. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  goto  bed  !"  his  uncle  said; 
and  the  boy  went.  But  Theophilus  Morrison,  alone 
in  his  library,  put  his  head  down  on  his  hands,  and 
drew  a  long  breath. 

Miss  Hannah,  shaking  and  crying,  led  Theophilus 
to  his  own  little  room.  She  asked  her  broken  ques 
tions,  and  exclaimed  and  protested  and  reproached 
him  all  at  once.  Theophilus  made  no  response. 
When  at  last  she  kissed  him  good-night,  and  left 
him  in  the  welcome  darkness  and  silence,  it  seemed 
as  though  some  weight  was  lifted  from  him.  He  sat 
up  in  bed  and  bent  his  face  forward  on  his  knees. 
He  did  not  cry,  but  sometimes  he  sighed  —  a  long, 
broken,  despairing  breath.  He  was  very  white  and 
still  all  the  next  day.  In  vain  Miss  Hannah  tried  to 
make  him  talk,  so  that  she  might  comfort  him.  He 
ate  what  she  forced  upon  him,  because  she  cried  when 
he  refused.  But  except  to  whisper  once,  "Aunt,  I 

216 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

shall  tell  God  on  him,"  he  was  silent.  For  Theophilus 
knew  Katy  was  to  be  sent  away  ;  they  would  never 
see  each  other  again.  "  Never  any  more — never  any 
more,"  he  said  to  himself  over  and  over. 

But,  spite  of  the  Judge's  orders  and  Miss  Hannah's 
care,  Theophilus  did  see  his  wife  once  more.  The 
morning  of  the  Murphys'  departure  he  watched  from 
the  orchard  the  loading  of  the  dray  in  front  of  Katy's 
door,  and  when  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Murphy  was  climb 
ing  up,  to  sit  on  top  of  her  stove  and  feather  bed,  and 
the  children  were  standing  about,  ready  to  be  packed 
in  beside  her,  he  went  to  the  wash-house  door,  and 
called  in  to  his  aunt  that  he  was  "  going  to  say  good 
bye  to  Katy."  He  did  not  wait  for  her  horrified  pro 
test,  but  ran,  white  and  panting,  down  through  the 
orchard  and  across  the  road.  Mrs.  Murphy  screamed 
when  she  saw  him,  and  poor  swollen  -  eyed  Katy 
hardly  dared  look  at  him,  after  her  first  glance.  The 
men  who  were  loading  the  wagon  stopped  and 
laughed— but  Theophilus  was  blind  to  all  but  Katy. 

The  child  had  been  pulled  up  to  sit  beside  her 
mother,  and,  looking  down  at  him,  said,  trembling, 
"  Good-bye,  Theophilus." 

"Shut  your  mouth,"  said  her  mother,  beginning 
to  cry.  "The  darlin'  boy  ;  he's  that  white — " 

"  Katy,"  said  Theophilus,  in  a  low  voice,  "  as  soon 
as  I'm  a  man,  I'm  coming  for  you." 

"  All  right,  Theophilus,"  said  Katy. 

"  You  won't  forget  we're  married  ?" 

"Oh  no,  Theophilus,"  murmured  Katy. 

"Oh,  Katy,  don't,  don't,  don't  go  and  leave  me  !" 
he  burst  out. 

"  There,  now,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Murphy,  "  don't  be 
takin'  on."  The  big,  motherly  woman  had  a  sudden 
15  217 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

impulse  to  pick  him  up  and  pack  him  with  her  brood 
among  her  pots  and  pans  and  feather  beds.  The 
little  boy  did  not  seem  to  hear  her. 

"  Katy  " — he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  looked  up  at 
her.  Then,  suddenly,  he  burst  into  tears,  ran  madly 
at  the  wagon,  and  tried  to  climb  up  over  the  big 
wheels.  "  I'm  going  too  ;  I'm  going  too — "  he  sob 
bed.  "  Take  me  with  you,  Katy  !"  He  clung  to  the 
wheels,  and  the  men,  laughing,  pulled  him  back. 

Mrs.  Murphy,  from  her  perch  on  the  feather  bed, 
laughed  too.  "Ain't  he  comical?"  she  said  ;  "well, 
there  ;  bless  him  !  Say,  now,  darlin'  go  home.  I'll 
be  keepin'  your  wife  for  you — " 

The  wagon  started,  and  Mrs.  Murphy  forgot  The- 
ophilus,  and  began  to  weep  for  her  own  hearth-stone 
from  which  she  had  been  so  cruelly  torn  away.  Then 
she  smacked  the  child  whose  fault  it  was,  which 
made  Katy  weep  also,  and  the  wailing  chorus  rose 
above  the  good-byes  of  the  neighbors,  who  stood 
about  watching  the  flitting. 

As  for  Theophilus,  he  was  quiet  again,  only  look 
ing  with  burning  eyes  at  the  little  figure  on  the 
wagon,  until  a  turn  in  the  road  carried  it  out  of 
sight. 

Then  he  went  home.  Miss  Hannah  did  not  tell 
the  Judge  of  this  disobedience,  but  she  reproached 
Theophilus  in  her  agitated,  flurried  way. 

"  Now,  my  dear  little  boy,  you  must — you  mustn't 
— you  know  brother  wouldn't — now  you  will  remem 
ber,  won't  you,  Theophilus  ?" 

Theophilus  nodded,  silently.  He  was  perfectly 
apathetic.  As  the  days  went  on  he  made  no  com 
plaint  of  loneliness.  He  seemed  to  be  just  a  silent, 
biddable  child.  He  fetched  and  carried  for  Miss 

218 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

Hannah,  and  took  the  tonic  Willy  King  had  ordered, 
and  learned  his  lessons,  and  never  went  down  to 
Shantytown  for  play-fellows  ;  but  he  turned  away 
his  head  whenever  his  uncle  spoke  to  him.  If  he 
was  asked  a  question,  he  answered  briefly  ;  but  it 
was  impossible  not  to  see  the  shrinking  and  fear 
and  hatred  on  the  little  mild  face.  He  used  to  try 
to  play,  at  first.  He  said  every  day  to  himself 
that  to-morrow  he  would  make  ink  out  of  pokeber- 
ries.  He  had  a  fancy  for  pretending  to  be  an  earth 
worm  burrowing  through  miles  of  clay  and  rock, 
represented  by  the  hay  in  the  loft.  But  interest 
flagged,  and  he  came  back  and  sat  listlessly  by  the 
fire  in  the  wash-house,  while  Miss  Hannah's  anxieties 
about  him  rippled  on  with  mild  incoherence  which 
never  needed  a  reply.  Sometimes  after  tea,  when  he 
had  been  stolidly  unresponsive,  the  Judge  would  go 
back  to  his  library  with  a  pang  which  he  supposed  to 
be  anger,  and  he  would  tell  himself  that  Theophilus 
was  as  ungrateful  as  everybody  else. 

"  I  would  make  something  of  him,"  he  used  to  tell 
himself.  "  He  has  brains  ;  he  would  be  a  credit  to 
me."  And  then  he  would  think  to  himself,  bitterly, 
how  unjust  it  all  was.  "  I  never  cared  for  a  human 
creature  before,"  he  said,  not  knowing  that  this  was 
his  own  sentence  ;  "  and  I'm  a  fool  to  care  now  !"  he 
added.  "  Well,  he's  not  worth  it.  Willy  King  is  an 
idiot."  In  his  rage  and  anxiety  he  was  almost  as  in 
coherent  as  Miss  Hannah.  Indeed,  he  made  no  con 
cealment  of  his  feeling  for  the  boy  ;  he  was  harshly 
and  openly  anxious  about  him.  He  scolded  Miss 
Hannah  because  he  was  pale,  and  was  imperious  in 
his  orders  that  the  child  should  have  this  or  that  com 
fort,  for  which,  indeed,  with  anguished  reluctance,  he 

219 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

once  or  twice  gave  her  some  money.  Over  and  over 
he  tried  to  make  Theophilus  talk.  He  was  eager  for 
a  friendly  look  or  word,  but  none  came.  The  child 
never  forgot.  Once  it  came  to  the  Judge  as  an  in 
spiration  that  Theophilus  had  not  forgiven  him  for 
taking  his  pipe;  and  he  called  the  boy  into  his  lib 
rary,  hopefully. 

"  Theophilus,"  he  said,  "  I  have  something  of  yours ; 
I'm  going  to  give  it  back  to  you.  Only  you  are  not 
to  smoke,  young  man  !"  he  ended,  with  an  effort  to 
be  jocose  that  made  the  little  boy  look  at  him  won- 
deringly ;  but  he  would  not  take  the  pipe. 

"I  don't  want  it  now,"  he  said,  briefly,  and  went 
back  to  sit  with  Miss  Hannah,  leaning  his  head 
against  her  knee,  and  trying  languidly  to  study  his 
spelling  lesson.  "  I  don't  like  spelling,"  he  said. 
"There  isn't  any  'because'  in  just  sticking  in  let 
ters."  This  was  apropos  of  "dough"  and  "doe," 
which  had  presented  difficulties  that  had  moved 
Theophilus  to  tears.  "  Katy  could  spell,  just  as 
easy  !"  he  said.  And  that  was  his  only  reference  to 
his  little  tragedy. 

Shortly  after  the  rebuff  of  the  pipe  the  Judge 
made  still  another  effort.  "  Here,  young  man,"  he 
said,  "  is  a  present  for  you.  Come  !  what  do  you 
say  ?  Don't  forget  your  manners  !"  He  snapped  a 
half-dime  down  on  the  table  by  Theophilus's  plate 
with  a  little  chuckle  of  generosity. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Theophilus,  listlessly.  He 
slipped  the  coin  into  his  pocket,  but  afterwards 
Miss  Hannah  saw  him  fingering  it,  and  looking  at  it 
with  a  gleam  of  interest.  "  Does  it  cost  much  to 
take  a  journey,  aunt  ?"  he  said.  And  then  he  said, 
with  a  little  animation  in  his  face,  "I  guess  I'll  save 

220 


JUSTICE    AND    THE    JUDGE 

up."  And  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  put  his  half- 
dime  into  an  empty  cigar-box,  which  he  said  should 
be  his  bank.  "When  that's  full  I'll  have  enough," 
he  said.  But  by-and-by  he  seemed  to  forget  it. 

As  the  winter  passed  he  grew  whiter  and  stiller. 
The  Judge  was  bitter  to  all  the  world  ;  Miss  Hannah 
had  a  bad  time  of  it,  but  Willy  King  had  a  worse. 

"  What  are  you  good  for,  anyhow  ?"  the  Judge 
used  to  say,  sneering  and  frightened  and  angry  all 
together.  "  What  do  you  suppose  I  pay  you  for  ?" 

It  appeared  that  Willy  wasn't  good  for  anything. 
"  Some  spring  has  been  cut,''  he  said  ;  "  the  boy 
doesn't  care  for  anything."  Afterwards  he  said  the 
child  had  no  constitution,  anyhow.  At  the  end  the 
Judge  was  with  the  little  boy  day  and  night,  and 
perhaps  the  old  man's  harsh  misery  softened  the 
child.  The  last  day,  when  from  morning  until  morn 
ing  the  Judge  had  sat  on  the  bed  (it  was  his  own, 
into  which  Theophilus  had  been  put),  the  child  looked 
at  him  once  or  twice,  with  a  glimmer  of  interest  in 
his  face. 

"  Uncle,"  he  said. 

The  Judge  took  his  hand,  and  held  it,  opening  and 
shutting  his  lips,  and  trying  to  speak. 

4<  Uncle,  I— won't— I  won't— tell  God,"  he  said. 

And  then  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 


WHERE   THE   LABORERS  ARE   FEW 


WHERE    THE    LABORERS    ARE    FEW 


Miss  JANE  JAY  used  to  think  that  she  discovered 
Paul  Phillips  ;  but  really  and  truly  Dr.  Lavendar 
saw  him  before  she  did,  and  so  did  her  sister,  Miss 
Henrietta. 

It  was  one  hot  August  afternoon  that  the  old  minis 
ter,  passing  by  the  open  door  of  the  tavern  bar-room, 
saw  a  lazy,  sweltering  crowd  gathered  inside,  where, 
it  seemed,  some  sort  of  entertainment  was  going  on. 
Dr.  Lavendar  stopped  and  looked  in,  his  hands  on 
either  side  of  the  doorway,  his  hat  pushed  back,  his 
face  red  with  heat.  He  smiled,  and  blinked  his  kind 
old  eyes,  and  then  he  frowned  :  an  acrobat,  in  black 
tights  and  scarlet  breech-cloth,  was  vaulting  over 
chair  backs  and  making  high  kicks.  His  work  was 
done  with  remarkable  grace,  but  with  exertions 
which  it  was  painful  to  witness  ;  for  he  had  but  one 
leg,  and  had  to  use  a  crutch.  Still,  his  face,  which 
was  dark  and  very  handsome,  and  streaming  with 
perspiration,  was  sparkling  with  interest  and  enjoy 
ment. 

It  was  the  one  leg  that  offended  Dr.  Lavendar. 
"  Trading  on  his  infirmities,"  he  said  to  himself, 
frowning,  and  shook  his  head.  Van  Horn,  who,  in 

225 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

his  shirt-sleeves,  was  trying  to  keep  cool  in  a  big 
rocking-chair,  shook  his  head  also,  as  if  to  say  that 
he  didn't  approve,  but  what  could  he  do  ?  Then  he 
turned  his  eyes  back  to  the  man,  who,  with  astonish 
ing  ease,  spun  round  on  his  crutch  and  kicked  lightly 
up  into  the  air  so  far  above  his  own  head  that  he 
dislodged  a  hat  balanced  on  top  of  the  clock.  There 
was  a  round  of  applause,  and  the  acrobat,  panting 
and  leaning  on  his  crutch,  bowed  and  laughed  and 
showed  his  handsome  white  teeth.  Dr.  Lavendar 
snorted  under  his  breath,  and  opened  his  umbrella, 
and  went  back  into  the  sun  and  heat,  plodding  along 
towards  home.  He  stopped  once  to  speak  to  Miss 
Henrietta  Jay,  who  was  coming  down  the  street,  her 
square,  faded  countenance  full  of  agitation  and  dis 
may. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Lavendar  !"  she  said,  with  a  gasp,  "have 
you  seen — have  you  seen  a  large  white  cat  anywhere 
about  ?" 

Poor  old  Miss  Henrietta's  voice  shook  as  she 
spoke.  She  had  no  umbrella,  and  the  sun  beat  down 
on  her  bent  shoulders.  She  wore  a  faded  black  dol 
man  which  had  a  sparse  fringe  of  narrow  crinkled 
tapes.  Her  rusty  bonnet  was  very  much  on  one 
side,  as  though  the  green  velvet  rosette  over  her  left 
eye  weighed  it  down.  "  It's  our  Jacky,"  she  said, 
her  lip  shaking.  "  He's  lived  with  us  fifteen  years  ; 
and  he's  lost." 

"Oh,  lost  cats  always  find  their  way  home,"  Dr. 
Lavendar  said,  comfortingly. 

"  Do  you  think  so?"  she  said,  in  a  despairing  voice. 
But  she  did  not  wait  for  his  answer;  she  went  on 
down  the  street,  with  wavering,  uncertain  steps,  as 
though  feeling  always  that  she  might  be  going  in 

226 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS  ARE    FEW 

just  the  wrong  direction.  She  stopped  now  and  then 
at  a  gateway  or  an  alley,  and  called  softly,  "  Baby  ! 
baby  !"  but  no  white  cat  appeared.  It  was  then  that 
she  too  passed  the  tavern  door  and  looked  in,  but 
only  to  say  to  Van  Horn,  "  Have  you  seen  a  large 
white  cat  anywhere  ?"  Afterwards  she  remembered 
that  she  had  seen  the  acrobat ;  but  at  the  moment 
she  was  blind  to  everything  but  her  own  anxiety. 

Dr.  Lavender  looked  after  her  and  sighed  ;  but 
when  he  met  Willy  King  coming  out  of  Tommy 
Dove's  shop,  and  smelling  of  dried  herbs,  he  burst 
out  with  his  disapproval  of  the  performance  in  the 
bar-room.  "There's  a  man  down  there  at  the  tav 
ern,"  he  said,  "jumping  around  on  one  leg  to  get 
coppers.  I  wonder  Van  Horn  allows  it !" 

And  Willy  agreed,  gloomily:  Willy  was  very 
gloomy  just  then,  because  his  wife,  very  sensibly, 
was  dieting  him  to  reduce  his  weight.  "  That  kind 
of  beggary  is  blackmail,"  he  said.  "It  makes  an  ap 
peal  to  your  sympathies,  and  you  give,  in  spite  of 
common-sense.  At  least,  you  want  to  give  ;  but  I 
won't.  It's  the  same  thing  with  these  women  who 
knit  afghans  and  things  that  you  can't  use.  Your 
mountebank  at  the  tavern  ought  to  be  in  the  work 
house." 

"As  for  knitting,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  thought 
fully,  "  I  suppose  you  mean  the  Jay  girls.  Well,  poor 
things  !  they've  got  to  do  something  that's  genteel ; 
and  knitting  is  that,  you  know.  Jane  refers  to  it  al 
ways  as  '  fancy-work/  which  soothes  her  pride,  poor 
child." 

"Jane  is  a  goose,"  said  the  doctor,  irritably. 
"  Maggy  is  the  only  one  that  has  any  sense  in  that 
family." 

227 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"Willy,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  chuckling,  "you've 
bought  an  afghan! — or  maybe  baby  socks?"  Willy 
looked  sheepish.  "William,  you  always  remind  me 
of  the  young  man  in  the  Bible  who  said  he  would 
not,  and  then  straightway  did.  Well,  I'm  glad  you 
did,  my  boy  ;  they  are  straitened,  poor  girls! — very 
straitened,  I  fear."  \ 

As  for  Willy  King,  breathing  forth  threatenings 
and  slaughter,  he  went  down  to  the  tavern  to  drop 
in  his  quarter  when  the  mountebank's  hat  went 
round.  But  when  he  got  there  the  crowd  had  dis 
persed  and  the  man  had  gone. 

"  Well,  Willy,"  said  Van  Horn,  who  had  known  the 
doctor  when  he  was  a  boy  and  used  to  steal  apples 
from  the  tavern  orchard,  "  I  swan,  that  was  the 
queerest  fish  !  He  hadn't  only  but  one  leg  and  a 
crutch,  and  he  kicked  as  high  as  your  head,  sir.  Yes, 
sir,  as  high  as  your  head.  And  then,  I  swan,  when 
the  show  was  over,  if  he  didn't  turn  to  and  preach  to 
them  there  fellers  ;  preach  as  good  a  sermon — well, 
now  you  won't  believe  me?  but  it  was  a  first-class 
sermon  !  Well,  sir,  them  fellers  listened.  Tob  Todd 
listened.  Yes  he  did.  He  listened.  And  that  man 
he  told  'em  not  to  patronize  my  bar,  so  he  did.  Well, 
for  the  soakers,  I  hold  up  both  hands  to  that.  But 
to  see  a  one  -  legged  dancing  tramp  setting  up  to 
preach  in  a  bar-room — I  swan  !"  said  Van  Horn,  who 
could  find  no  words  for  the  occasion. 

The  doctor  looked  disgusted,  and  put  his  quarter 
back  in  his  pocket.  "  You'd  better  keep  your  eye  on 
the  till,"  he  said,  briefly. 

But  Van  Horn  was  doubtful.  "  Seemed  like  as  if 
he  was  all  right,"  he  ruminated;  "still,  you  can't 
never  tell." 

228 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS  ARE   FEW 

So  it  happened  that  Willy  King  had  his  views 
about  Paul  when  Miss  Jane  Jay  came,  white  and 
breathless,  to  tell  him  that  the  poor  man  had  "  hurt 
his  limb"  on  the  road  near  her  sister's  house,  and 
would  he  please  come  and  fix  it  ?  "  At  once,  Dr. 
King,"  said  Jane,  agitatedly,  "at  once  !" 

Miss  Jane  was  the  youngest  of  the  Misses  Jay. 
There  were  three  Misses  Jay,  who  lived  "  the  Lord 
knows  how !"  Old  Chester  used  to  say,  in  their 
tumbled -down  old  house  on  the  river  road.  Dr. 
Lavendar  had  referred  to  their  circumstances  as 
"straitened,"  but  he  had  no  idea  of  the  degree  of 
their  straitness.  Nobody  knew  that  but  the  Jay 
girls,  and  they  kept  it  to  themselves.  The  family 
had  known  better  days  two  generations  back  ;  in 
deed,  many  a  time,  when  their  dinner  was  inade 
quate,  the  Misses  Jay  stayed  their  stomachs  on  the 
fact  that  they  were  Bishop  Jay's  great-granddaugh 
ters.  Besides  that,  their  father  had  been  a  clergy 
man  ;  so  they  had,  poor  ladies  !  in  the  midst  of  their 
poverty,  that  gentle  condescension  which  is  the  ec 
clesiastical  form  of  Christian  humility.  They  took 
a  great  interest  in  church  matters,  and  they  were 
critical  of  sermons,  as  behooved  those  who  knew  the 
dark  mysteries  of  sermon-writing.  Still,  they  were 
kindly,  simple  women,  who  tried  to  do  their  duty  on 
a  very  insufficient  income,  and  to  live  up  to  their 
clerical  past.  This  family  pride  was  most  noticeable 
in  fat  Miss  Maggy — there  are  people  who  would  be 
fat  on  a  straw  a  day  ;  Henrietta,  the  oldest,  devoted 
to  her  cat  and  her  canary-bird,  and  the  real  genius 
of  the  family  in  regard  to  afghans,  read  her  Bible 
through  twice  a  year  on  a  system  arranged  by  the 

229 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

bishop,  and  merely  echoed  Maggy's  views ;  little 
Jane  realized  her  birth,  but  with  a  vague  discontent 
at  its  restrictions.  Indeed,  she  and  Henrietta,  with 
out  Maggy's  influence,  might  even  have  slipped 
down  into  what  Miss  Maggy  called  "  mercantile  pur 
suits."  They  would  have  been  dressmakers,  perhaps, 
for  Henrietta  had  a  pretty  taste  in  turning  dresses 
wrong  side  out,  right  side  out,  and  wrong  side  out 
again  ;  and  Jane  might  have  trimmed  bonnets  with 
(she  used  to  think  to  herself)  a  "real  touch."  But 
Miss  Maggy  was  firm.  "  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  I 
have  the  greatest  respect  for  working  persons. 
Great-grandfather  Jay  wrote  a  tract  for  them — don't 
you  remember?  —  'The  Virtuous  Content  of  Poor 
James,  the  Brickmaker.'  But  still,  I  know  what  is 
due  to  our  station.  And  besides,"  she  ended,  with 
that  pathetic  shrinking  of  elderly,  genteel  poverty, 
"if  you  trimmed  hats,  Jane,  everybody  would  know 
that  we  are  —  are  not  well  off."  The  other  sisters 
sighed  and  agreed,  and  were  somehow  oblivious  of 
the  fact  that  Willy  King  had  no  need  of  a  dozen 
pairs  of  baby  socks,  and  that  Mrs.  Dale's  order  of  an 
afghan  every  year  implied  either  that  these  brilliant 
coverings  wore  out  very  quickly,  or  else  that  Mrs. 
Dale's  purchase  was  only — but  it  would  be  cruel  to 
name  it ! 

"  We  do  fancy-work,"  Miss  Maggy  said,  "  for  rec 
reation  ;  if  our  friends  need  the  product  of  our 
needles,  well  and  good.  Were  our  circumstances 
different,  we  would  be  glad  to  give  them  what  they 
wish.  As  it  is,  we  make  a  slight  charge  —  for 
materials." 

So  the  Misses  Jay  knitted  and  crocheted ;  and  one 
day  in  the  year  put  on  their  shabby  best  clothes  and 

230 


WHERE    THE    LABORERS    ARE    FEW 

made  calls  ;  and  one  day  in  the  year  entertained  the 
sewing  society,  and  lived  on  the  fragments  of  cake 
afterwards  as  long  as  they  lasted.  It  was  a  harm 
less,  monotonous  life,  its  only  interest  the  anxiety 
about  money — which  is  not  an  interest  that  feeds 
the  soul. 

On  this  hot  August  afternoon — the  afternoon  fol 
lowing,  as  it  chanced,  the  meeting  of  the  sewing 
society,  the  Misses  Jay's  ancient  cat,  disturbed,  per 
haps,  by  the  excitement  of  so  much  company,  had 
disappeared.  Henrietta  had  hurried  into  the  village 
to  look  for  him,  and  Jane  had  gone  out  in  the  other 
direction  ;  Maggy  stayed  at  home  to  let  him  in  if  he 
came  back.  But  Jane  did  not  go  far ;  not  that 
she  was  not  anxious  about  Jacky,  only  "there's  no 
use  getting  a  sunstroke,"  she  said  to  herself,  wearily. 
However,  she  did  look,  and  called  among  the  bushes, 
and  then,  feeling  the  heat  very  much,  in  a  hopeless 
way  she  gave  it  up. 

There  is  a  wooden  bridge  across  a  shallow  run  just 
beyond  the  Jay  house,  and  Jane  thought  how  cool  it 
would  be  in  the  deep  shadow  underneath  it,  where 
the  run  slipped  smoothly  over  wide  flat  stones,  or 
chattered  into  little  waterfalls  a  foot  high — and  per 
haps  Jacky  might  be  down  there,  she  thought.  So, 
holding  on  to  the  bushes  and  tufts  of  grass,  she 
climbed  down  the  bank  and  found  this  dark  shelter, 
with  the  cool  sound  of  running  water.  "Jacky! 
Come  kitty  !"  she  called  once  or  twice  ;  and  then  she 
sat  down  on  a  water-worn  log  washed  up  under  the 
bridge  and  caught  between  two  stones  ;  there  were 
tufts  of  dried  dead  grass  here  and  there,  swept  side- 
wise  by  the  winter  torrents,  and  left  above  the 
shrunken  summer  stream,  bleached  and  stiff  with 

231 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

yellow  mud  ;  overhead  were  the  planks  of  the  bridge, 
with  lines  of  sunshine  between  them  as  thin  as  knit 
ting-needles.  Once,  as  she  sat  there,  a  wagon  came 
jolting  along,  and  the  dust  sifted  down  and  spread 
in  a  flowing  scum  on  the  water.  It  was  very  silent, 
except  for  the  run,  chattering  and  bubbling,  and 
chattering  again  ;  sometimes,  absently,  she  picked 
up  little  stones  and  threw  them  into  the  water  :  she 
was  thinking  of  an  afghan  she  was  making  for 
Rachel  King's  little  adopted  baby.  But  Miss  Jane 
had  no  interest  in  her  work  ;  it  was  something  to  be 
done,  that  was  all.  Indeed,  she  was  tired  of  the 
touch  of  the  worsted,  and  of  the  hot  smoothness  of 
the  crochet-needle,  slipping  in  and  out,  in  and  out. 
She  dabbled  her  fingers  in  the  water,  as  if  she  would 
wash  the  feeling  away.  She  thought  vaguely  of  the 
years  of  afghans  and  socks  and  endless  talk  about 
colors  ;  there  was  never  anything  more  exciting  to 
talk  about  than  whether  pink  and  blue  should  be 
used  together,  or  the  new  fashion  of  using  green  and 
blue,  which  Miss  Maggy  declared  to  be  shocking; 
nothing  more  exciting,  except  the  sewing  society 
meeting  once  a  year ;  or,  now,  Jacky's  getting  lost. 
Nothing  rose  up  in  the  level  dulness  of  her  thirty- 
four  years — not  even  a  grief  ! 

As  she  sat  there  listening  to  the  low  chatter  and 
whisper  of  the  run,  there  came  to  little  Miss  Jane  a 
bad  query — "  what  is  the  use  of  it  all  ?"  I  suppose 
most  of  us  know  the  peculiar  ennui  of  the  soul  that 
accompanies  this  question  ;  it  is  a  sort  of  spiritual 
nausea  which  is  never  felt  in  the  stress  of  agonized 
living,  but  only  in  sterile  peace  ;  indeed,  that  is  why 
we  may  believe  it  to  be  but  the  demand  of  Life  for 
living — for  love,  or  hate,  or  grief.  Miss  Jane,  think- 

232 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

ing  dully  of  afghans,  made  no  such  analysis  ;  she 
was  not  happy  enough  to  know  that  she  was  unhap 
py.  She  only  said  to  herself  :  "  I  wonder  what's  the 
matter  with  me?  I  guess  it's  Henrietta's  cake." 

She  sighed,  and  dropped  her  chin  into  her  hand, 
leaning  her  elbow  on  her  knee.  Her  face  was  thin, 
but  it  had  a  delicate  color,  and  her  eyes  were  violet, 
or  blue,  or  gray,  like  changing  clouds  ;  her  pathetic 
mouth,  drooping  and  patiently  discontented,  had 
much  sweetness  in  its  timid  way.  But  there  was  no 
touch  of  human  passion  about  her.  She  was  fond  of 
her  sisters,  she  told  herself,  as  she  sat  there  wonder 
ing  what  was  the  use  of  it  all,  but  nothing  stirred 
in  her  at  the  thought  of  them.  "  If  somebody  told 
me  just  now,  here  under  the  bridge,  that  something 
had  happened  to  sister  Maggy,  I  don't  believe  I'd 
really  mind.  Of  course  I'd  cry,  and  all  that  —  but 
it  wouldn't  make  any  difference.  I  just  don't  care. 
And  I  don't  care  whether  Jacky  comes  back  or  not." 

Some  one  came  down  the  road  whistling.  Jane 
lifted  her  head  and  listened ;  when  the  walker 
reached  the  bridge  there  was  a  curious  sound  :  a 
footstep,  then  a  tap  ;  a  footstep,  then  a  tap.  The 
dust  jolted  softly  down,  wavering  across  the  strips 
of  sunshine,  and  then  vanishing  on  the  flowing  water. 
"  It's  a  lame  person,"  said  Miss  Jane,  listening.  A 
footstep,  then  a  tap — then  a  snap,  a  crash,  a  fall  ! 
Jane  jumped  up,  breathlessly  ;  from  a  knot-hole  in 
the  planks  above  her  a  broken  stick  fell  clatter 
ing  on  to  the  stones  ;  it  had  a  brass  ferrule  and 
ring.  "  Some  poor  man  has  broken  his  crutch,"  Jane 
thought.  "  Wait  a  minute,  and  I'll  bring  it  up  to 
you  !"  she  called  out,  and  began  to  climb  up  the 
bank,  the  end  of  the  crutch  in  her  hand, 
is  233 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

As  for  Paul,  when  he  had  pitched  forward  into  the 
dust,  he  was  so  astonished  that  for  the  moment  he 
did  not  feel  the  keen  pain  of  a  wrenched  knee.  But 
when  Miss  Jane,  out  of  breath,  with  the  end  of  the 
crutch  in  her  hand,  appeared  over  the  edge  of  the 
bank,  his  face  was  white  with  it. 

"  Oh,  you've  hurt  yourself  !"  said  Miss  Jane. 

"Yes,  'm,"  said  Paul;  "but  never  mind!"  His 
brown  eyes  smiled  up  at  her  in  the  kindest  way. 

"  Oh,  you  are — lame,"  she  faltered. 

"  Yes  ;  but  that's  nothing,"  Paul  said,  the  color  be 
ginning  to  come  back  into  his  face  ;  "  I  guess  I  put 
the  end  of  my  crutch  into  that  knot-hole.  I  was 
whistling  away,  you  know,  and  I  never  took  notice 
of  the  road." 

"  I  heard  you  whistling,"  said  Miss  Jane  ;  "  but — 
what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"  Oh,  somebody  '11  come  along  and  give  me  a  lift," 
he  said  ;  then  he  looked  ruefully  at  the  parted  strap 
of  his  knapsack,  which  had  burst  open,  scattering  his 
possessions  in  the  dust. 

"You  can't  stay  here  in  the  sun,"  she  protested, 
"  and  so  few  wagons  come  along  this  road." 

"  If  I  could  get  over  there  to  the  other  side,"  he 
said,  "  there's  a  good  lot  of  shade,  and  I  could  just  sit 
there  until  a  cart  comes  along.  I'll  get  'em  to  drop 
me  at  one  of  these  barns.  I'll  get  a  night's  lodging 
in  the  hay,  and  my  knee'll  be  all  right  to-morrow." 
He  tried  to  scramble  up,  but  the  effort  made  him 
blanch  with  pain. 

"  Oh,  do  let  me  help  you,"  said  Miss  Jane,  her  color 
coming  and  going.  "  Oh  dear,  I  know  it  must  hurt ! 
Do  put  your  hand  on  my  shoulder  ;  do,  please  !" 
Paul  assented  very  simply  ;  with  a  gentle,  iron-like 

234 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

grip  he  took  hold  of  her  thin  little  arm  ;  but  it  was 
so  little  and  so  tremulous  that  he  let  go  almost  in 
stantly,  and  would  have  had  an  awkward  fall  but  that 
she  caught  him  ;  then  he  got  his  balance,  and  leaning 
on  her  shoulder,  sweating  and  smiling  at  the  pain,  he 
managed  to  get  to  the  other  end  of  the  bridge. 

Miss  Jane,  standing  up  beside  him,  in  her  striped 
barege  dress,  and  her  hat,  with  its  flounce  of  lace 
around  the  brim,  pushed  back  from  her  flushed  and 
interested  face,  began  to  protest  that  she  must  get 
some  help  immediately.  But  even  as  she  spoke  Paul 
suddenly  turned  his  head  a  little  and  fainted  quite 
away. 

So  that  was  how  it  happened  that  (a  man  and  cart 
coming  along  most  opportunely)  he  was  not  carried 
to  a  barn  to  nurse  his  sprained  knee,  but  to  the  Jay 
girls'  house,  where  he  was  put  down  on  the  big  horse 
hair  sofa  in  the  parlor,  and  given  over  to  the  minis 
tration  of  Willy  King. 

II 

William  King  was  not  sympathetic.  He  said  the 
man  had  hurt  his  knee  badly,  and  had  better  be  sent 
to  the  workhouse  to  recover.  "  He  ought  to  be  in 
jail,"  Willy  said  to  Miss  Maggy,  who  lifted  her  hands 
in  horror  at  the  word.  "  He's  a  vagrant.  I'll  send 
some  kind  of  conveyance,  and  have  him  taken  to  the 
workhouse.  It's  too  bad  you  should  be  bothered 
with  him,  Miss  Maggy." 

Then  it  was  that  Jane,  standing  behind  her  sister, 
and  quite  hidden  by  her  ponderous  frame,  said,  in 
her  light,  fluttering  voice  :  "  Poor  man  !  I  think  it 
would  be  wicked  to  send  him  to  the  workhouse." 

235 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Dr.  King  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Oh,  of  course 
it  is  just  as  you  and  Miss  Maggy  say.  You'll  be  very 
kind  to  keep  him  for  a  few  days  ;  but  I  hope  you'll 
not  be  repaid  by  having  your  spoons  carried  off." 

Miss  Maggy's  mouth  grew  round  with  dismay. 
"  But  ladies  in  our  position  cannot  refuse  shelter  to 
a  poor  man  with  an  injured  limb,"  she  said. 

"  And  his  only  limb,  too,"  Jane  added,  with  some 
excitement. 

As  for  the  danger  to  the  spoons — "  We  haven't  but 
six,"  said  Miss  Maggy,  sighing,  "  and  we  can  hide 
them  under  the  edge  of  the  carpet  in  Henrietta's 
room.  Go  and  meet  her,  Janie,  and  tell  her  about  the 
poor  man." 

Henrietta  was  coming  up  the  road,  her  bonnet 
still  very  much  on  one  side,  and  her  old  face  quiver 
ing  with  anxiety.  "  Did  you  find  him  ?"  she  called 
out  as  soon  as  she  saw  Jane,  who  shook  her  head, 
and  began  to  tell  her  own  exciting  story.  Miss  Hen 
rietta  listened,  absently. 

"  His  name  is  Paul,"  Jane  ended  ;  "a  very  roman 
tic  name,  I  think.  You  don't  mind  his  remaining,  do 
you,  sister  Henrietta  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Miss  Henrietta,  sighing. 
"  Is  he  a  circus  actor  ?  One  of  the  servants  took  me 
to  the  circus  once,  when  I  was  a  little  thing.  Janie, 
ask  him  if  he  saw  a  large  white  cat  as  he  came  along. 
Poor  man  !  I'm  sorry  he  hurt  himself.  Oh,  Janie, 
Jacky  may  be  hurt  !  I  keep  thinking  that  he  may 
be  suffering,"  she  said,  her  poor  old  eyes  filling ; 
then,  as  they  came  up  to  the  door,  she  called  again, 
faintly  :  "  Baby  !  baby  !  Come,  pussy  ;  come,  Jack  !" 

As  for  Miss  Maggy,  when  it  was  settled  that  the 
man  should  remain,  she  thought  of  the  pantry  and 

236 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

sighed  ;  but  it  was  she  who  informed  him  that 
he  might  stay  until  his  "  limb  "  permitted  him  to 
walk. 

Paul,  however,  had  his  own  views,  "No,  'm,"  he 
said,  "  thank  you  ;  but  I  see  you  have  a  stable  back 
there  behind  the  house  ;  I'll  go  there,  and  lie  in  the 
hay  till  my  knee  clears  up.  Then  I'll  go  along." 

"  But  you  can  just  as  well  stay  here,"  Jane  said. 

Paul  shook  his  head  with  cheerful  stubbornness. 
"No,  ma'am  ;  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  but  I'll  go  to 
the  stable." 

"As  you  please,  my  good  man,"  said  Miss  Maggy. 

But  Jane  still  protested.  "  Oh,  a  stable  !"  she  said  ; 
"I  wouldn't  do  that." 

"There's  been  One  in  a  stable,  ma'am,  that  didn't 
think  it  beneath  Him.  I'm  right  apt  to  think  about 
that,  sleeping  round  the  way  I  do,"  the  man  said, 
simply. 

The  two  ladies  stared  at  him  with  parted  lips. 

"It  must  have  been  a  pretty  sight,"  he  went  on, 
thoughtfully.  "  When  I'm  lying  up  on  the  hay,  I  get 
the  picture  of  it  in  my  mind  real  often — just  like  as 
if  I  saw  it.  There's  the  cows  standing  round  chew 
ing  their  cud  ;  and  maybe  some  mules — you'd  hear 
them  stamping.  And  the  oxen  would  be  rubbing  up 
against  their  stanchions.  I  always  think  the  door 
was  open  a  little  crack,  and  you  could  see  out — the 
morning  just  beginning,  you  know.  And  there'd  be 
a  heap  of  fresh  manure  outside,  smoking  in  the  cold. 
And  there,  in  the  manger,  Mary  and  Him.  I  like  to 
think  that  to  myself — don't  you?"  * 

"Why — yes;  I  don't  know — I  suppose  so,"  Jane 
said,  breathlessly. 

"My  great-grandfather  wrote  a  sermon  on  the 
237 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Nativity,"  Miss  Maggy  said,  kindly  ;  "  I'm  sure  he 
would  think  it  very  nice  in  you  to  have  such 
thoughts." 

But  after  that  they  did  not  oppose  his  plan  of 
leaving  the  house.  The  butcher  -  boy  was  asked  to 
help  him  limp  out  to  the  stable,  and  some  hay  was 
shaken  down  for  his  bed. 

"  He  talks  like  a  Sunday-school  teacher,"  the  boy 
said  when  he  came  back  for  the  five-cent  fee  that  had 
been  promised  him  ;  "  but  I  don't  mind.  And  you'd 
ought  to  'a'  seen  him  jump — down  at  the  tavern  ! 
My!" 

And  indeed,  with  open  pride,  the  acrobat  himself 
bore  testimony  to  his  ability.  "  I  get  a  good  living 
out  of  this  leg,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  do  if  it  was  to  stiffen  up  on  me."  He  sighed 
and  looked  anxiously  at  Willy  King,  who  had  come 
in  to  see  how  he  was  getting  along. 

"If  you  keep  quiet,  you'll  come  out  all  right," 
Willy  said,  gruffly  ;  "  but  if  I  were  you,  I'd  try  to  find 
a  more  decent  way  of  earning  my  living." 

Paul  laughed.  "  It's  decent  enough,"  he  said,  "  so 
long  as  I'm  decent.  That's  the  way  I  look  at  work 
— your  trade's  decent,  so  long  as  you  are.  It  isn't 
being  decent  troubles  me  ;  though  I  will  say  I  don't 
like  to  hand  round  the  hat.  Not  but  what  I've  a 
right  to  !  I  do  good  work  ;  yes,  sir,  first-class  work. 
There  ain't  a  man  in  my  class  with  two  legs,  let 
alone  one,  that  can  touch  the  notch  I  do.  No,  sir ! 
I'm  proud  of  my  profession  ;  but  the  trouble  is — " 

"W«ll,  what's  the  trouble?"  the  doctor  said, 
crossly. 

"Why,  it's  so  uncertain,"  the  man  said.  "I  have 
got  as  high  as  $1.75  at  a  performance  ;  and  then, 

238 


WHERE    THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

again,  I  won't  get  but  twenty-five  cents.    But  if  this 
darned  knee  was  to  stiffen  up  on  me—" 

"  It  won't,"  William  King  said ;  "but  I  should  think 
you  could  do  something  better  than  this,  anyhow." 

Paul  looked  perfectly  uncomprehending.  "  But 
I'm  A  i,"  he  insisted.  "  Before  my  accident  I  was 
'way  up  in  the  profession.  Of  course  this  is  a  come 
down  to  travel  and  hand  round  the  hat ;  but  I'm 
mighty  lucky  I've  got  a  profession  to  fall  back  on  to 
support  my  little  sister ;  she's  an  invalid.  And  then, 
I  do  get  good  opportunities,"  he  added. 

"  Opportunities  to  perform  ?" 

"  No,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  the  man  answered, 
briefly. 

"  What  was  your  accident  ?"  said  Willy  King.  He 
was  sitting  on  a  wheelbarrow,  and  Paul  was  stretched 
out  in  the  hay  in  front  of  him.  The  barn  was  de 
serted,  for  the  cow  was  out  at  pasture  ;  now  and  then 
a  hen  walked  in  at  the  open  door,  and  pecked  about 
in  a  vain  search  for  oats  ;  on  the  rafters  overhead 
some  pigeons  balanced  and  cooed,  and  from  a  dusty, 
cobweb-covered  window  a  dim  stream  of  sunshine 
poured  down  on  the  man  lying  in  the  hay.  Willy 
King  took  off  his  hat  and  clasped  his  hands  around 
one  fat  knee.  "How  did  you  hurt  yourself?"  he 
said. 

"  Trapeze.  That  was  my  line.  Well,  it  wasn't  just 
an  accident.  There  was  a  rope  cut  half  through — " 

"  What !     You  don't  mean  on  purpose  ?" 

"Well,  yes,"  the  man  said,  easily.  u  I  guess  there 
was  no  doubt  of  it.  Well,  I  was  up  there  right  by 
the  main  pole —  My,  that's  a  sight  !  I  suppose  you 
never  was  up  by  the  main  pole  during  a  perform 
ance  ?" 

239 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Well,  no,"  the  doctor  admitted. 

"  Yes,  it's  a  great  sight.  You  sit  up  there  on  the 
trapeze,  and  look  down  at  all  the  rows  and  rows  of 
faces,  and  you  can't  hear  anything  but  a  kind  of 
hum,  you're  up  so  high — right  up  under  the  canvas  ; 
you  can  hear  it,  though,  flapping  and  booming, 
cracking  like  a  whip  once  in  a  while  !  Half  of  it  may 
be  in  the  sun,  and  then  a  big  shadow  on  half  of  it ; 
and  all  the  people  looking  up  at  you,  and  the  band 
squeaking  away  down  below  for  your  money's  worth  ! 
Yes,  it's  a  sight.  Well,  that's  all  there  was  to  it.  I 
saw  the  rope  giving,  and  I  jumped  to  catch  a  flyer  ; 
and  I  missed  it.  But  I  wasn't  killed.  Well,  it  was 
wonderful ;  I  wasn't  killed  !"  He  smiled  as  he  spoke, 
but  there  was  a  brooding  gravity  in  his  face. 

When  Willy  King  left  his  patient,  he  stopped  at 
the  Jay  house  to  say  that  Paul  was  getting  along 
very  well ;  he  must  have  said  something  else,  too, 
for  when  he  went  home  he  presented  his  wife  with  a 
sofa  pillow.  "  Now,  Willy  !"  said  poor  Mrs.  William, 
"this  is  the  sixth  !  Indeed,  I  do  think  it  is  wrong  in 
you  to  encourage  the  Jay  girls  to  make  things  no 
body  needs.  I  think  it  would  be  more  truthful  to 
give  them  the  money  outright  than  to  pretend  you 
want  a  sofa  cushion." 

"  It  would  hurt  their  feelings,"  the  doctor  objected. 

"  My  dear,  truth  is  more  important  than  feelings," 
said  Martha,  decidedly. 

William  changed  the  subject  hurriedly.  William 
was  blond,  and  fat,  and  very  amiable,  and  with  a  great 
respect  for  his  Martha's  common-sense ;  but  common- 
sense  does  pall  on  a  husband  sometimes. 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 


III 

Paul  improved  very  slowly  ;  the  fact  was  the  barn 
was  comfortable  and  the  perfect  cure  of  the  knee 
important,  so  with  simple  confidence  in  the  hospi 
tality  of  the  three  ladies,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
pleasure  of  convalescence.  And  it  certainly  was 
pleasant.  The  Misses  Jay  were  very  kind  to  him. 
Miss  Henrietta  visited  him  every  morning,  bringing 
his  breakfast,  and  telling  him  many  times  how,  when 
she  was  a  little  girl,  she  had  been  taken  to  the  circus. 
"  I  saw  a  young  lady  ride  on  a  horse  without  any 
saddle,"  Miss  Henrietta  would  say ;  "  it  was  really 
wonderful ;  I've  never  forgotten  it."  And  then, 
after  this  politely  personal  reminiscence,  she  would 
talk  to  him  about  her  poor  pussy,  whose  affection 
and  intelligence  gradually  assumed  abnormal  pro 
portions.  Sometimes,  as  she  carried  his  plate  away, 
she  would  stop  and  call  feebly,  "  Jacky,  Jacky  !  You 
know  he  might  be  lying  sick  under  the  barn,"  she 
explained  to  Paul,  who  was  very  sympathetic.  Miss 
Maggy  went  every  day  before  dinner  to  inquire  for 
his  "  limb."  As  for  Miss  Jane,  she  came  to  the  barn 
door  upon  any  excuse.  Into  the  starved,  thin  life  of 
little  Miss  Jane  had  come  suddenly  an  interest.  Per 
haps  that  reference  to  the  stable  in  Bethlehem  had 
first  given  her  something  to  think  about.  It  had 
been  startlingly  incongruous,  but  there  had  been 
nothing  offensive  in  it,  because  it  was  so  simple ; 
indeed,  that  it  was  the  natural  tenor  of  the  man's 
thought  was  obvious  at  once.  The  first  morning, 
when  Miss  Henrietta  took  his  breakfast  out  to  him, 
she  found  him  reading  his  Bible.  The  next  day, 

241 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Miss  Maggy,  hunting  for  eggs  in  the  shed,  heard 
some  one  singing,  and  listening,  heard : 

"Guide  me,  O  thou  Great  Jehovah, 

Pilgrim  through  this  barren  land. 
I  am  weak — " 

Then  there  was  a  pause.  Then  a  joyous  burst : 
"  yes  ;  but  Thou  art  mighty  (I  bet  Thou  art !);"  and 
then  the  rest  of  it : 

"  Lead  me  with  Thy  powerful  hand !" 

Miss  Maggy,  who  had  the  unreasoning  emotion  of 
the  fat,  repeated  this  with  tears  to  her  sisters,  and 
added  that  perhaps  it  might  help  the  poor  man  in  his 
effort  to  be  a  Christian  to  give  him  one  of  Great 
grandfather  Jay's  sermons  to  read.  Miss  Henrietta 
agreed  vaguely,  and  then  said  she  knew  that  he  was 
a  good-hearted  person,  because  he  had  sympathized 
so  about  Jacky.  But  Miss  Jane,  crocheting  rapidly, 
thought  to  herself  how  strange  it  was  that  a  man 
who  had  been  a  circus  rider  should  be — religious  ! 
The  fact  caught  her  interestt  just  as  sometimes  a 
point  in  a  wide  dull  landscape  catches  the  eye — per 
haps  the  far-off  window  of  some  unseen  house  flaring 
suddenly  with  the  sun  and  speaking  a  hundred  mys 
teries  of  invisible  human  living.  The  commonplace, 
healthy  way  in  which,  once  or  twice,  Paul  spoke  of 
those  things  which,  being  so  vital,  are  hidden  by 
most  of  us,  was  a  shock  to  her  which  was  awakening. 
It  was  like  letting  hot  sunshine  and  vigorous  wind 
touch  suddenly  some  delicate,  spindling  plants  which 
have  grown  always  in  the  dark.  But  it  attracted 
her  with  the  curious  fascination  which  the  unusual, 
even  if  a  little  painful,  has  for  all  of  us.  So  she  went 

242 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

very  often  to  the  barn  to  inquire  about  his  health. 
Sometimes  she  took  her  knitting  and  sat  on  the  barn 
door  step,  and  tried,  in  a  fluttering  way,  to  make 
him  talk.  This  was  not  difficult ;  the  acrobat  was 
most  cheerfully  talkative.  Propped  up  in  the  hay, 
he  watched  her,  and  sometimes  held  her  big  loose 
ball  of  double  zephyr  in  his  hands,  unrolling  a  length 
or  two  in  answer  to  her  soft  jerk  ;  he  told  her  about 
his  "business"  and  the  difficulties  of  his  "profes 
sion,"  and  once  in  a  while,  very  simply,  there  would 
come  some  allusion  to  deeper  things.  But  for  the 
most  part  he  talked  about  being  "on  the  road."  He 
blushed  all  over  his  dark,  handsome  face  when  he 
said  that  he  had  to  hand  round  the  hat  after  a  per 
formance  ;  "  but  it's  for  sister  Alice,"  he  explained. 
He  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  this  sister.  She 
lived  out  in  Iowa,  he  said,  and  he  didn't  believe  he'd 
ever  take  another  long  tramp  so  far  east  as  Pennsyl 
vania.  "  It's  too  far  away.  Alice  is  kind  of  sickly, 
and  if  she  was  to  be  taken  bad,  I  might  not  be  able 
to  get  back  in  a  hurry ;  I  mightn't  have  my  car-fare. 
I'm  going  to  tramp  it  home  in  October,  and  then 
I  guess  I'll  dwell  among  mine  own  people,  as  David 
says."  One  day  he  showed  her  a  little  dog-eared  ac 
count-book  in  which  he  kept  the  record  of  his  re 
ceipts  and  expenditures.  "  In  a  town,  I've  got  to  put 
up  at  a  tavern  over  -  night,  and  that  counts  up. 
That's  why  I  like  to  go  to  little  places  where  there 
are  barns.  Now  there's  Mercer  on  that  page  :  I  had 
to  pay  for  a  license  in  Mercer ;  and  the  barkeepers, 
they  charged  too  ;  so  I  only  made  $i  the  first  day, 
and  75  cents  the  next,  and  $1.20  the  last  day.  You'd 
'a'  thought  I'd  done  better  in  a  city,  wouldn't  you? 
On  that  page  opposite  is  my  expenses.  See?  At 

243 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

the  bottom  of  the  page  is  what  I  sent  Alice — $3.25 
that  week.  I  have  sent  her  as  high  as  $5  once." 

It  was  raining,  and  Jane  was  sitting  just  inside 
the  door  ;  she  ran  her  hand  along  her  wooden  knit 
ting-needles,  and  then  took  the  account-book,  hold 
ing  it  nervously,  as  though  not  quite  certain  what 
to  do  with  it. 

"  I  made  most  of  that  $5,"  said  Paul,  "  in  a  saloon 
that  was  run  by  a  man  named  Bloder." 

"  I  shouldn't  think,"  Miss  Jane  said,  hesitatingly, 
"  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to — to  perform  in  saloons." 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "  they're  just  my  place  ! 
I'd  rather  go  to  a  saloon  than  have  three  open-air 
turns." 

Jane  Jay  shut  the  little  book  and  handed  it  back 
to  him,  a  look  almost  of  pain  about  her  delicate  lips. 
The  acrobat  glanced  at  her,  and  then  his  handsome 
face  suddenly  lighted.  "  Oh,  not  the  way  you  think 
— bless  you,  no  !  I  get  more  men  in  a  saloon,  that's 
why  ;  and  when  the  show's  done,  I  get  a  hack  at  'em. 
I  believe  that  when  I  go  into  a  saloon,  dirty,  like  as 
not,  with  old  musty  sawdust  on  the  floor  all  dripped 
over  with  beer,  and  a  lot  of  fellows  just  shaking 
hands  with  the  devil — I  believe  I'm  preaching  to  the 
spirits  in  prison." 

"  Why,  do  you  mean,"  she  demanded — "  do  you 
mean  that  you  talk — religion  in  those  places  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Why,  you  ought  to  be  a  clergyman  !"  she  said, 
impulsively. 

"  I  wish  I  could  be,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "  Of 
course  that's  what  I  aimed  for;  but  you  see,  with 
Alice  to  look  after — no,  I  don't  suppose  it'll  come 
about.  This  is  the  best  I  can  do— to  talk  after  the 

244 


WHERE    THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

performances.  But  it  isn't  like  having  a  church 
with  red  seats  and  a  pulpit.  But  my  vow  was  to  be 
a  preacher,  ma'am." 

"  And  then  you  decided  to  be  a — to — to  give  per 
formances  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  'twas  like  this,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
doing  trapeze  business.  Well,  I  was  .advertised  all 
round  ;  you  ought  to  have  seen  the  bill-boards,  and 
Signer  Paulo,  in  his  great  act,  shooting  down  with 
his  arms  folded — this  way — across  his  breast  !  That 
was  me.  I  got  good  pay  those  days  ;  and — and  I 
was — well  ma'am,  I  was  a  great  sinner.  I  was  the 
chief  of  sinners.  Well,  I  had  enemies  in  my  line  :  a 
star  always  has.  The  greater  you  are,"  said  the 
acrobat,  with  perfect  simplicity,  "the  more  folks 
envy  you.  So  somebody  cut  a  rope  half  through 
right  up  under  the  canvas.  The  ropes  are  tested  be 
fore  every  performance,  so  it  must  have  been  a  quick 
job  for  the  fellow  that  did  it.  I  was  sitting  up  there, 
and  I  seen  the  rope  giving.  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  I 
don't  know ;" — his  voice  dropped,  and  he  looked  past 
her  with  rapt,  unseeing  eyes — "it  was  a  vision,  I 
guess  : — /  seen  my  sin.  '  My  God  !'  I  said,  out  loud. 
I  don't  know  to  this  day  if  it  was  because  I  was 
scared  of  being  killed,  or  scared  of  my  sin.  Of  course 
nobody  could  hear  me — the  horses  tearing  round  the 
ring,  and  mademoiselle  jumping  through  fire-hoops, 
and  the  band  playing  away  for  dear  life.  Well — it 
was  jump,  anyhow  ;  so  1  just  yelled  out,  *  You  save 
me,  and  P II give  You  the  credit  /'  Then  I  jumped." 

"Oh!"  said  Jane,  panting,  and  knitting  very  fast. 

"  Well,  that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  He  saved  me. 
And  there  was  my  bargain  with  Him.  At  first,  see 
ing  that  my  leg  had  to  go,  I  wasn't  just  sure  we  was 

245 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

even  ;  and  then  I  says  to  myself  :  *  Yes ;  He  saved 
me.  He  only  just  gave  me  a  pinch  in  the  leg,  for 
fear  I'd  get  too  stuck  up,  starring,  and  forget  my 
bargain.'  I  don't  know  as  I  would  have  seen  it  right 
off,  but  a  minister  came  to  see  me  a  good  deal  in  the 
hospital,  and  he  gave  me  a  lot  of  ideas.  He  just 
pointed  out  that  so  long  as  my  life  was  saved,  my 
bargain  was  good.  'You  give  God  the  glory  wher 
ever  you  go,'  he  said — which  is  the  church  way  of 
saying  give  Him  the  credit,  you  know.  Well,  at  first 
I  took  it  to  be  that  I'd  preach,  respectably,  in  a 
church  ;  I've  a  good  deal  of  a  gift  in  talking.  But  it 
wasn't  to  be,"  he  ended,  with  a  sigh. 

"Why  not?"  Jane  demanded,  boldly.  In  her  in 
terest  she  rolled  her  work  up  in  her  black  silk  apron, 
and  came  and  sat  down  beside  him  in  the  hay.  Paul 
turned  a  little  on  his  side,  and  leaning  on  his  elbow, 
looked  up  at  her,  his  dark,  gentle  eyes  smiling.  She 
would  not  have  known  how  to  say  it,  but  she  felt  a 
dull  envy  of  the  passion  and  emotion  that  had  illu 
minated  his  face.  She  wished  he  would  talk  some 
more  about — things.  It  was  as  if  her  numb,  chilled 
mind  tried  to  crouch  closer  to  the  warmth  of  his  vital 
personality.  She  bent  forward  as  she  talked  to  him, 
and  her  breath  came  quicker.  "  I  don't  see  why  you 
shouldn't  be  a  clergyman,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  I  haven't  any  education,"  he  explained.  "  I 
couldn't  stand  up  in  a  real  church,  with  nice  red 
cushions,  and  talk.  You  see,  I  don't  know  things 
that  church  people  want  to  hear.  I  don't  understand 
about  election,  and  foreordination,  and  those  things. 
You've  got  to  have  an  education  for  a  church  ;  and 
an  education  costs  money.  And  then  there's  Alice  : 
I  can't  stop  earning,  you  see."  He  lapsed  into  silence, 

246 


'THE  GREATER  YOU  ARE,'  SAID  THE  ACROBAT,  'THE  MORE 
FOLKS  ENVY  YOU  " 


WHERE    THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

and  Jane  was  silent  too.  But  she  looked  at  him 
again  sidewise,  and  the  beauty  of  his  large  frame — 
the  broad,  deep  chest,  the  grace  and  vigor  of  the  long 
line  from  the  shoulder  to  the  knee,  the  powerful  arm 
and  wrist — held  her  eyes. 

"  My  knee's  getting  on,"  he  said,  suddenly  ;  "  and 
I  think  I  can  make  a  start  in  another  week  ;  but  be 
fore  I  go  I  want  to  have  a  performance  for  you  and 
the  other  two  ladies — and  any  of  your  lady  friends 
you'd  like  to  invite  in.  I'll  give  you  the  best  show 
I've  got,"  he  said,  his  face  eager  and  handsome,  and 
all  alert  to  return  favor  with  favor,  and  to  reveal  the 
possibilities  of  his  profession. 

"  Oh,  you  are  very  kind,"  Miss  Jane  said,  with  a 
start  ;  "  I'll  tell  my  sisters.  They'll  be  very  much 
interested,  I  know ;  but — but  I'd  like  it  better  for 
you  just  to  preach." 

"  I  guess  you  ladies  don't  need  my  kind  of  preach 
ing,"  he  answered,  good-naturedly;  "  you're  'way  up 
above  that,  you  know.  You're  all  ready  to  hear 
about  the  Trinity,  and  how  much  a  cubit  is,  and 
what  a  centurion  is,  and  free  will — and  all  those 
things.  If  I  ever  get  my  education,  and  know  'em, 
I'll  invite  you  to  come  to  my  church.  But  now  I'll 
just  have  to  stick  to  the  gospel,  I  guess." 


IV 

Those  were  strange  days  to  Miss  Jane  Jay.  Into 
the  even  dulnessof  knitting  afghans,  and  bemoaning 
Jacky,  and  wondering  whether  the  weather  would  be 
this  or  that,  had  come  the  jar  of  vigorous  living,  as 
vulgar  as  the  honest  earth — loud,  courageous,  full  of 

24? 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

toil  and  sweat  and  motion.  Once,  walking  home  in 
the  rainy  dusk,  she  stopped  before  a  deserted  cow-shed 
by  the  road-side,  on  which,  long  ago,  had  been  pasted 
a  circus  advertisement,  It  was  torn  at  one  corner, 
and  was  flapping  idly  in  the  wind  The  colors  were 
washed  and  faded  by  summer  rains,  and  some  boys 
had  thrown  mud  at  it,  but  Miss  Jane  could  still  see 
the  picture  of  a  man  hanging  by  one  arm  from  a 
trapeze,  ready  for  the  downward  dive 

"  Mr.  Phillips  used  to  do  that/'  she  thought.  She 
called  him  Mr.  Phillips  now,  not  Paul,  as  the  others 
did  in  familiar  and  condescending  kindness  She 
was  glad  he  did  not  do  those  things  now  .  the  preach 
ing  lifted  him  to  another  plane  in  her  mind. 

The  other  sisters  were  interested  in  Paul  too,  but 
the  atrophy  of  years  cannot  be  easily  vitalized,  and 
they  did  not  think  very  much  about  him.  Henrietta 
was  patiently  trying  to  accustom  herself  to  Jacky's 
loss.  She  used  to  sit  making  baby  socks  hour  after 
hour,  her  poor  vague  fancy  picturing  the  pussy's 
wanderings  and  sufferings,  until  for  very  wretched 
ness  the  slow  painful  tears  would  rise  and  blur  the 
crocheting"  in  her  wrinkled  hands.  Still,  she  listened 
when  Jane  told  her  this  or  that  of  Mr.  Phillips  ;  and 
she  and  Maggy  were  especially  moved  when  they 
heard  of  his  desire  to  preach  the  gospel. 

"  I  think  he'd  make  a  good  clergyman — he's  kind 
to  animals,"  said  Miss  Henrietta,  sighing.  "  I  saw 
him  patting  Clover  the  other  night.  Oh  dear,  how 
he  would  have  loved  Jacky!" 

Miss  Maggy  nodded  approvingly,  and  said  again 
that  it  was  very  nice  for  a  poor  person  to  be  relig 
ious.  "  Perhaps  I'll  copy  one  of  Great-grandfather 
Jay's  sermons  for  him,  and  he  can  take  it  away  with 

248 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

him,  and  read  it  aloud  after  his  performances — 
though  perhaps  he  ought  to  have  a  license  for  a 
bishop's  sermon,"  she  added,  doubtfully.  "As  for 
his  performing  for  us  " — for  Miss  Jane  had  repeated 
Paul's  offer — "  I  suppose  it  would  seem  ungracious 
not  to  let  him  do  it." 

But  when  the  day  came  that  Paul's  knee  was 
strong  enough  for  gymnastics,  the  two  older  ladies 
were  really  quite  interested  in  his  "  show,"  as  he 
called  it.  "  He  is  going  to  do  it  to-night,"  Miss 
Maggy  said  ;  "  and  he  says  that  it  will  be  in  the  finest 
style  '  He  said  he  would  wear  tights  I  didn't  like 
to  ask  him  what  they  were,  as  it  is  not,  I  think,  del 
icate  to  refer  to  any  special  garment  of  a — a  gentle 
man's  wardrobe  ;  but  I  did  wonder." 

"  It  means  stays,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Henrietta. 
"  I  don't  see  why  he  mentioned  them,  I'm  sure." 

*  Oh,  well,  a  person  in  Paul's  walk  of  life  does  not 
realize  the  impropriety  of  such  an  allusion  before 
ladies,"  said  Miss  Maggy,  kindly  "  You  can't  expect 
him  to  make  delicate  distinctions:  I  hope  he's  not 
disappointed  because  we  are  not  asking  any  one  in  ; 
but  we  couldn't  do  that.  Henrietta,  would  you  put  a 
white  border  on  this  baby  blanket,  or  a  blue  one  ?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Jane,  breathing  quickly,  "that  Mr. 
Phillips  is  just  as  delicate  as  any  one." 

"  I  like  blue  best,"  Miss  Henrietta  said, 

Jane's  hands  trembled,  and  she  put  her  knitting 
down.  "  I'm  going  to  ask  him  if  he  doesn't  want  an 
other  lamp  for  to-night.  We  can  let  him  have  two," 
she  said,  indifferent  to  poor  Miss  Maggy's  sigh  that 
it  would  use  up  a  good  deal  of  oil  She  went  swiftly 
down  the  garden  to  the  stable,  where  Paul  welcomed 
her  with  enthusiasm,  and  asked  her  if  she  didn't 
17  249 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

think  he  had  made  things  look  pretty  nicely.  u  I 
feel  nervous  about  my  knee,"  he  said,  "  but  I'm  most 
ly  worried  for  fear  I  won't  do  my  best  before  the 
ladies.  It's  more  embarrassing  to  have  a  little  select 
audience  like  this,  than  a  big  dress  circle."  His  tone 
seemed  to  range  her  on  his  side,  as  opposed  to  the 
"  audience,"  which  gave  her  a  new  and  distinct  feel 
ing  of  responsibility  that  was  almost  anxiety.  She 
told  him  about  the  lamps,  and  advised  him  as  to  which 
end  of  the  open  space  between  the  stalls  and  the 
feed-bins  should  be  the  stage.  She  laughed,  in  her 
flurried  way,  until  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  at 
some  of  his  jokes,  and  she  asked  questions,  and  even 
made  one  or  two  suggestions.  Perhaps  she  had 
never  been  so  excited  in  her  life. 

Then  she  went  back  to  the  house.  "  We'll  put  on 
our  best  dresses,"  she  said  to  her  sisters,  in  a  breath 
less  way. 

'k  Oh,  Janie,  not  to  go  and  sit  in  the  barn  ?"  pro 
tested  Miss  Maggy. 

"  I  will,"  Miss  Jane  said,  with  spirit.  "  I  think  it's 
only  polite.  And  please,  girls,  each  of  you  bring 
your  bedroom  candle  over  with  you.  He  says  he 
wants  as  much  light  as  possible.  Oh  dear !  he  is  so 
superior  to  his  profession  !"  she  burst  out,  her  face 
flushing. 

The  best  clothes  were  wonderingly  conceded  by 
the  two  older  sisters,  and  after  tea,  in  the  September 
dusk,  before  the  moon  rose,  the  three  Misses  Jay 
stepped  out  across  the  yard  to  the  barn.  Each  had 
a  lighted  candle  in  her  hand,  and  each  held  up  her 
petticoats  carefully,  and  walked  gravely,  with  a 
troubled  consciousness  of  the  unusualness  of  the 
occasion. 

250 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

The  barn  was  very  bright  :  Paul  had  borrowed 
some  lanterns  from  a  neighbor,  and  added  two  or 
three  he  had  found  in  the  loft,  and  all  the  lamps  Jane 
could  bring  him  from  the  house,  The  narrow  space 
in  front  of  the  stalls  was  swept  and  garnished,  and 
at  its  farther  end  were  three  chairs,  each  with  a 
bunch  of  golden-rod  tied  on  the  back.  The  lanterns 
swung  from  the  rafters,  and  the  lamps  stood  on  the 
top  of  the  feed  bin,  and  the  three  bedroom  candles 
were  deposited,  at  Jane's  command,  on  three  up 
turned  buckets  in  front  of  what  was  evidently  Paul's 
end  of  the  open  space.  When  the  sisters  entered 
there  was  a  rustle  among  the  pigeons  overhead,  and 
the  cow,  rubbing  her  neck  against  her  stanchion, 
stopped,  and  looked  at  them  with  mild,  wondering 
eyes,  and  then  drew  a  long,  fragrant  sigh,  and  went 
on  chewing  her  cud, 

"This  is  very  strange,"  said  Miss  Henrietta. 

"  It  is  very  exciting,"  murmured  Miss  Maggy, 
nervously. 

The  gleam  of  all  the  lights,  the  candle-flames  bend 
ing  and  flaring  in  wandering  draughts,  the  gigantic 
shadows  between  the  rafters,  the  silence,  except  for 
Clover's  soft  breaths,  Paul's  impressive  absence — 
were  all  strange,  almost  alarming. 

As  for  Miss  Jane,  she  looked  around  her  but  said 
nothing. 

**  Shall  we  sit  down  ?"  Miss  Maggy  asked,  in  a  whis 
per.  "  Where  is  he,  Janie  ?" 

"  He  will  come  in  a  few  moments,"  said  Jane. 
"  Yes,  sit  down,  please." 

She  went  over  to  the  bin  to  turn  up  one  of  the 
lamps,  and  looked,  with  anxious  responsibility,  tow 
ards  the  unused  stall  which  Paul  had  told  her  was 

251 


OLD    CHESTER   TALES 

to  be  his  dressing-room.  Suppose  he  didn't  do  well  ? 
She  was  nervous  to  have  him  begin  and  get  through 
with  it. 

Suddenly,  back   in   the  shadows,  Paul   began  to 

whistle  : 

"  I'm  dreaming  now  of  Hallie 
Sweet  Hallie,  sweet  Hallie;" 

then  he  came  bounding  out,  bowed,  whirled  round 
on  his  crutch,  and  stood  still,  laughing.  Jane  caught 
her  breath,  her  feet  and  hands  grew  cold  ;  the  other 
sisters  murmured,  agitatedly.  Paul  was  clothed  in 
his  black  tights  and  scarlet  breech -cloth;  a  small 
scarlet  cap  was  set  side -wise  on  his  head,  and  his 
crutch  was  wound  with  scarlet  ribbons. 

"  Ladies,"  he  began,  "  I  shall  have  the  pleasure — " 

"  I  really  think — I  really  feel — "  said  Miss  Maggy, 
rising. 

"  I — I'm  afraid,  perhaps — such  a  costume — "  mur 
mured  Miss  Henrietta. 

Paul  looked  at  them  in  astonishment.  "  Is  any 
thing  wrong,  ladies  ?  If  you'll  just  be  seated,  I'll 
begin  at  once." 

"  Do  sit  down,"  Miss  Jane  entreated,  faintly ;  "  peo 
ple  always  dress — that  way." 

The  two  older  sisters  stared  at  her  in  amazement. 
"  But,  Janie — "  whispered  Miss  Henrietta. 

"  You  can  go,"  said  Jane,  "  but  I  shall  stay.  I 
think  it's  unkind  to  criticise  his  clothes." 

"  If  he  only  had  some  clothes,"  Miss  Maggy  an 
swered,  in  despair.  But  they  sat  down.  They  could 
not  go  and  leave  Jane  ;  it  would  have  been  an  im 
propriety.  As  for  Paul,  he  plunged  at  once  into 
his  performance,  with  his  running  commentary  of 
fun  and  jokes.  Always  beginning,  "  Ladies  !"  Once 

252 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS    ARE    FEW 

inadvertently  he  added,  "  and  gentlemen,"  but  stop 
ped,  with  some  embarrassment,  to  explain  that  he 
got  so  used  to  his  "  patter  "  that  he  just  ran  it  off 
without  thinking.  His  agility  and  strength  and 
grace  were  really  remarkable,  but  Jane  Jay  watched 
him  with  hot  discomfort ;  once,  when  he  turned  a 
somersault,  as  lightly  as  a  thistle  seed  is  blown  from 
its  stalk,  she  looked  away.  But  the  rest  of  the 
"audience"  began  to  be  really  interested  and  a  lit 
tle  excited.  "  Just  see  that  !"  Miss  Maggy  kept  say 
ing.  '*  Isn't  it  wonderful !" 

"  But  if  any  one  should  call,"  Miss  Henrietta  whis 
pered,  "  I  should  swoon  with  embarrassment.  Still,  I 
am  sure  it's  very  creditable.  Once,  when  I  was  a  child, 
I  went  to  the  circus,  and  saw  a  man  jump  that  way." 

Jane's  face  was  stinging.  "  I  don't  like  it  at  all," 
she  said,  under  her  breath.  She  looked  at  one  of  the 
lamps  on  the  feed-bin  until  it  blurred  and  made  the 
water  stand  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  I  wish  he  would  stop !" 
she  said  to  herself. 

"If,"  said  Paul,  "any  lady  in  the  audience  would 
care  to  hold  a  hat  up  above  my  head,  I  may  demon 
strate  a  high  kick  !" 

"  I  will,  Mr.  Phillips,"  Miss  Jane  said,  briefly. 

"  Oh,  Janie — "  said  Miss  Henrietta. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  really — "  murmured  Miss  Maggy. 

"  If  you'll  stand  on  this  bin,  ma'am,"  said  Paul, 
taking  off  his  cap  with  a  sweeping  bow. 

For  just  an  instant  Jane  hesitated,  which  gave 
Miss  Maggy  the  chance  to  say,  "  Oh,  Jane,  my  dear — 
really,  I  don't  think — " 

"  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,"  said  Miss  Jane,  breath 
lessly. 

"  Well,  wait,"  Maggy  entreated ;  "  if  you  must  do 
253 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

it,  let  me  run  back  to  the  house  and  bring  over  one 
of  my  skirts.  I'm  taller  than  you  are,  and  if  you  put 
it  on,  it  will  be  longer  and  hide  your  feet." 

Miss  Jane  nodded.  "I'll  come  in  a  moment,  Mr. 
Phillips,"  she  said,  in  a  fluttered  voice  ;  and  when 
-Miss  Maggy,  very  much  out  of  breath,  brought  the 
skirt,  she  slipped  it  on,  and,  climbing  up  on  to  the 
bin,  stood,  the  long  black  folds  hanging  in  a  clumsy 
and  modest  heap  about  her  feet,  and  held  out  the 
hat.  Her  face  was  stern  and  set ;  she  was  miserably 
ashamed.  The  two  other  sisters  gaped  up  at  her 
apprehensively,  but  with  undisguised  interest.  Paul, 
however,  did  not  share  the  emotions  of  the  moment ; 
he  leaped  over  three  chairs  arranged  in  a  pyramid, 
twirled  round  on  his  crutch,  and  then,  with  a  bound 
up  into  the  air,  lifted  with  his  foot  the  hat  out  of 
Jane's  nervous  hand.  Then  he  stopped,  by  force  of 
habit,  to  wait  for  applause  ;  the  two  ladies  before 
him  said,  faintly,  "  Dear  me  !"  But  they  whispered 
to  each  other  that  it  was  wonderful. 

Jane,  gathering  up  the  long  skirt  in  her  hands, 
looked  down  at  him,  and  said  nothing. 

He  turned,  kissed  his  hand  to  her,  and  bowed  so 
low  that  the  scarlet  cockade  on  his  cap  swept  the 
floor ;  his  dark  eyes,  looking  up  at  her,  caught  the 
flare  of  the  candle-light  in  a  sudden  flash. 

Jane  Jay's  heart  came  up  in  her  throat. 

That  was  the  end  of  the  show.  The  three  candles 
of  the  foot-lights  were  burning  with  a  guttering 
flame ;  the  cow  had  gone  down  on  her  knees,  and 
then  come  heavily  to  the  floor,  ready  for  sleep. 
Paul,  out  of  breath,  but  very  much  pleased  with  the 
condition  of  his  knee,  sat  down  on  one  of  the  over 
turned  buckets  and  fanned  himself. 

254 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

"  This  is  the  time  you  preach,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Phillips  ?" 
Miss  Jane  said.  It  was  as  if  she  were  trying  to  bring 
him  back  to  his  true  self. 

"  When  I  get  through  a  performance  ?  Yes, 
ma'am.  People  are  pretty  good-natured  then,  and 
willing  to  listen,  you  know." 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke.  There  was  always  a  laugh 
ready  to  bubble  over  when  he  talked. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  Miss  Henrietta,  vaguely,  "that 
Paul's  circumstances  in  life  did  not  permit  him  to 
study  for  the  ministry." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Paul ;  "  but  my  folks  couldn't 
have  afforded  it  when  I  was  growing  up,  even  if  I'd 
had  a  mind  to — which  I  didn't,  till  I  was  converted, 
and  I  was  twenty-four  then." 

"  It  isn't  too  late  yet,  is  it  ?"  said  Maggy,  sym 
pathetically.  "  Perhaps  Dr.  Lavendar  could  help 
you  to  get  a  scholarship  somewhere.  I  know  he 
wrote  letters  about  a  scholarship  when  the  Smiths' 
oldest  boy  wanted  to  go  to  college." 

Jane's  face  flushed  suddenly.  "  I  never  thought  of 
that !  Why,  Mr.  Phillips — why  shouldn't  you  study 
now  ?" 

Paul  had  stopped  fanning  himself,  and  was  listen 
ing.  "  I've  heard  of  scholarships,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
never  had  anybody  to  put  me  in  the  way  of  them." 

Miss  Jane,  in  her  excited  interest,  had  not  noticed 
that  her  sisters  had  risen  and  were  waiting  for  her. 
"  Come,  Janie,"  they  murmured  ;  and  Jane  came, 
reluctantly.  "You  must  see  Dr.  Lavendar  to-mor 
row,"  she  said,  as  they  drew  her  away.  "  Oh,  I  be 
lieve,  I  believe  you  can  do  it  !" 

And  as  the  three  sisters,  with  their  empty  candle 
sticks  in  their  hands,  walked  back  in  the  moonlight 

255 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

to  their  own  door,  she  said  again  and  again,  "Yes, 
he  must  be  a  clergyman — he  must !" 

Miss  Maggy  smiled  indulgently,  and  said  that  she 
supposed  Janie  had  it  in  her  blood  to  work  for  the 
church.  "  Great  -  grandfather  Jay  was  always  en 
couraging  young  men  to  enter  the  ministry,"  she 
said,  "and  Janie  inherits  it,  I  suppose."  And  then 
Miss  Maggy  said  that  she  was  worried  to  death  be 
cause  she  didn't  think  the  new  pink  worsted  was  a 
good  match  for  the  pink  they  had  been  using. 

When  Miss  Jane  went  to  her  room  she  was  too  ex 
cited  to  go  to  bed  ;  there  was  a  spot  of  color  in  her 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes  shone  ; — a  clergyman  !  yes  ; 
why  not? 

It  seemed  to  Miss  Jane,  because  of  the  beating  of 
her  heart  and  the  swelling  of  her  throat,  that  her 
hope  for  Paul  was  desire  for  the  Kingdom  of  God. 
How  much  good  he  would  do  if  he  only  were  a  clergy 
man  ;  if  he  had  a  church,  and  wore  a  surplice  !  He 
would  talk  differently  then,  and  not  say  "ain't"; 
and  he  would  take  dinner  with  Dr.  Lavendar,  and  go 
to  Mrs.  Dale's  for  tea  ;  he  might  even  be  assistant  at 
St.  Michael's  !  For  Dr.  Lavendar  was  getting  old, 
and  by  the  time  Mr.  Phillips  took  orders,  there  would 
have  to  be  an  assistant  at  St.  Michael's.  Jane  Jay 
sat  down  and  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  window-sill, 
and  looked  out  into  the  misty  September  night.  She 
could  see  the  black  pitch-roof  of  the  stable,  where  a 
lamp  was  still  burning.  It  came  to  her  that  perhaps 
Paul  was  kneeling  there.  Something  lifted  in  her 
like  a  wave.  She  felt  a  strange  longing  for  tears  ; 
she,  too,  wanted  to  pray,  to  cry  out  for  something — 
for  pardon  for  her  sins,  perhaps,  or  for  death  and 
heaven.  She  said  to  herself  that  she  loved  her 

256 


WHERE   THE   LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

Saviour; — this  was  what  Mr.  Phillips  called  "con 
version,"  she  thought.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  in  a  broken, 
breathless  way — "  oh,  I  am  a  great  sinner  !  He  has 
converted  me."  She  murmured  over  and  over  that 
she  had  sinned  ;  in  the  exaltation  of  the  moment  she 
did  not  stop  to  search  the  blank  white  page  of  her 
life  to  find  a  stain.  Through  her  numb  thoughts, 
this  sword-thrust  of  emotion  had  pierced  to  the  very 
quick.  She  suffered  ;  and  began  to  live. 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  knelt 
down  and  prayed  passionately. 


Paul  Phillips  was  to  set  out  on  the  road  the  next 
day ;  but  the  hope  that  had  leaped  up  at  Miss  Mag 
gy's  words  made  him  eager  to  follow  the  suggestion 
of  seeing  Dr.  Lavendar. 

Jane  Jay,  her  face  pale,  but  full  of  some  exalted 
consciousness,  went  early  to  the  rectory  and  told  the 
story  of  Paul  and  his  aspirations.  "  It  is  very  inter 
esting,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  "  very  interesting.  Of 
course  I'll  see  him.  Jane,  my  dear,  it  is  wonderful, 
as  you  say.  The  Lord  is  able  to  raise  up  children  to 
Abraham  out  of — anything  !  Send  him  along.  Tell 
him  to  be  here  at  ten  o'clock." 

Jane  went  back  to  the  stable  and  gave  Paul  the 
message.  He  was  kneeling  down,  packing  his  few 
possessions  in  his  knapsack,  unwinding  the  scarlet 
ribbons  from  his  crutch,  and  taking  the  cockade  out 
of  his  cap.  He  looked  up  anxiously.  "  Does  he 
think — "  he  began. 

"You  are  to  go  and  see  him  at  ten,  Mr.  Phillips," 
257 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

she  said;  "and — you  will  be  a  clergyman!"  Paul 
drew  a  long  breath  and  went  on  with  his  packing ; 
but  there  was  a  light  in  his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  sometimes  it  seems  to 
me  that  our  disappointments  are  His  appointments? 
Just  drop  the  dis,  you  know.  It  makes  'em  real 
pleasant  to  look  at  them  that  way.  It  was  a  disap 
pointment  to  wrench  my  knee ;  there's  no  use  deny 
ing  it  ;  and  yet  look  what  may  come  out  of  it  !"  He 
gave  a  smiling  upward  look  of  the  frankest,  most 
good-humored  affection,  as  though  communing  with 
Some  One  she  did  not  see. 

Miss  Jane  watched  him  without  speaking.  She 
stood  leaning  against  the  feed-bin,  twisting  a  bit  of 
straw  nervously,  looking  at  him,  and  then  looking 
away. 

"  You  will  be  a  clergyman,"  she  said  again,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  But  I  want  you  to  know  now, — I  want  to 
tell  you — " 

Paul  had  risen,  and  gotten  his  crutch  under  his 
arm  ;  but  there  was  something  in  her  voice  that 
made  him  look  at  her  keenly  ;  then,  instantly,  he 
turned  his  eyes  away. 

"  I  want  you  to  know — that  I — oh — until  you  came 
I  never  thought  anything — mattered.  I  never  really 
cared  ;  though  I  went  to  church,  and  my  father  was 
a  clergyman,  and  Great-grandfather  Jay  was  a  bish 
op.  But  I — I  didn't  really — "  She  faltered,  trem 
bling  very  much,  her  throat  swelling  again,  and  her 
face  illumined.  "You've  made  me  —  religious,  I 
think,"  she  ended,  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  thank  the  Lord  if  He's  spoken  a  word  through 
me,"  the  man  said,  tenderly  ;  but  he  did  not  look  into 
her  face. 

258 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

Miss  Jane  went  away  hurriedly,  running,  poor  girl ! 
the  last  half  of  the  way  to  her  own  room  ;  there  she 
lay  upon  her  bed,  face  downward,  trembling.  She 
was  very  happy. 

When  Paul  came  limping  into  the  rectory,  the  old 
clergyman  gave  him  a  steady  look  ;  then  all  his  face 
softened  and  brightened,  and  he  took  his  hand  in 
both  his  own.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said,  "and  we'll  have 
a  pipe.  Well,  you  had  an  ugly  fall,  didn't  you? 
How's  your  knee  ?" 

14  Well,  the  darned  thing's  all  right  now,"  said  Paul, 
with  his  kindling  smile,  "  but  it's  been  slow  enough. 
I  don't  know  what  I  would  have  done  if  the  ladies 
hadn't  been  so  kind  to  me." 

"  And  you  are  starting  out  again  now,  are  you  ?" 
said  Dr.  Lavendar.  "  Oh,  that's  my  dog,  Danny. 
Danny,  give  your  paw,  sir,  like  a  gentleman." 

Paul  seized  the  dog  by  the  scruf  of  the  neck  and 
put  him  on  his  knee.  "  Ain't  he  a  fine  one  ?"  he  said, 
chuckling.  "  Look  at  him  licking  my  finger !  Yes, 
sir  ;  I'm  going  on  the  road  again  ;  but  Miss  Jane  Jay, 
she  told  me  that  maybe  you  could  put  me  in  the  way 
of  getting  an  education,  so  as  I  could  be  a  preacher." 

"But  I  understand  you  do  preach  now?"  said  Dr. 
Lavendar. 

"Yes,  sir  ;  but  not  properly.  I  just  talk  to  'em. 
Plain  man  to  man.  I  get  at  them  after  I've  given  a 
show  on  the  road  or  in  the  saloons.  But — it's  a  hard 
line,  sir.  I — used  to  be  a  drinking  man  myself,"  he 
ended,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  old  minister  nodded.  "  You  go  right  into  the 
enemy's  country  ?" 

"Yes,"  Paul  said,  briefly. 
259 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  It  gives  you  a  hold  on  'em  ?"  Dr.  Lavendar  sug 
gested. 

"That's  so,"  Paul  said.  "I  sometimes  think  if 
I  hadn't  been  there  myself  I  wouldn't  know  how 
to  put  it  to  them.  Still,"  he  said,  thoughtfully, 
"  you  can't  apply  that  doctrine  generally.  It 
would  be  kind  of  dangerous.  We  don't  want  to 
sin  that  grace  may  abound.  Well,  it's  mixing. 
You  see,  that's  where  I  feel  the  need  of  a'n  edu 
cation,  sir.  That,  and  people  going  down  to  the 
pit  :  the  pit  ain't  just  according  to  my  ideas  of  fair 
ness." 

"  How  do  you  explain  those  things  ?"  asked  the  old 
man. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  just  say  to  myself,  '  He  understands 
His  business' " 

"The  Judge  of  all  the  earth  shall  do  right  !"  said 
Dr.  Lavendar.  "  Tell  me  some  more." 

So  Paul,  stroking  Danny's  shaggy  little  head,  told 
him,  fully.  Dr.  Lavendar  got  up  once,  and  tramped 
about  the  room,  with  his  coat  tails  pulled  forward 
under  his  arms,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets  ;  once 
his  pipe  went  out,  and  once  he  took  his  spectacles  off 
and  wiped  them. 

When  the  story  was  finished  he  came  and  sat  down 
beside  the  younger  man,  and  struck  him  on  the  knee 
with  a  trembling  hand.  "  My  dear  brother  !  my  dear 
brother  !"  he  said.  "  Go  back  to  the  roads  and  the 
saloons  ;  and  prepare  the  way  of  the  Lord,  and  make 
straight  His  paths !" 

Paul  put  Danny  down,  gently,  and  looked  up  with 
a  puzzled  face. 

"  Sir,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  "the  Lord  has  educated 
you.  You  don't  need  the  schooling  of  men.  See 

260 


WHERE   THE    LABORERS    ARE    FEW 

what  a  work  has  been  given  you  to  do  :  Paul,  a  min 
ister  to  the  Gentiles !" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Paul,  "if  I  can  just  get  some  edu 
cation.  If  I  can  know  a  few  things." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling,  "  you 
know  what  is  best  worth  knowing  in  the  world  : 
you  know  your  Master.  He's  put  you  to  do  a  work 
for  Him  which  most  of  His  ministers  are  not  capable 
of  doing.  You  have  a  congregation,  young  man, 
that  we  old  fellows  would  give  our  ears  to  get.  Who 
would  listen  to  me  if  I  went  into  Van  Horn's  and 
talked  to  them  ?  Not  one  !  They'd  slink  out  the 
back  door.  And  I  can't  get  'em  into  my  church — 
though  I've  got  the  red  cushions,"  said  Dr.  Laven- 
dar,  his  eyes  twinkling.  "  No,  sir  ;  your  work's  been 
marked  out  for  you.  Do  it  ! — and  may  the  Lord 
bless  you,  and  bless  the  word  you  speak  !"  His  face 
moved,  and  he  took  off  his  glasses  again,  and  polished 
them  on  his  big  red  silk  handkerchief. 

Paul's  bewildered  disappointment  was  evident  in 
his  face.  So  evident  that  Dr.  Lavendar  set  himself 
to  tell  him,  in  patient  detail,  what  he  thought  of  the 
situation  ;  and  as  he  talked  the  light  came.  "  I  see," 
the  young  man  said  once  or  twice,  softly,  as  though 
to  himself  ;  "  I  see — I  see."  It  came  to  him,  as  it 
comes  to  most  of  us,  if  we  live  long  enough,  that 
when  we  ask  for  a  stone,  He  sometimes  gives  us 
bread — if  we  will  but  open  our  eyes  to  see  it. 

But  when  he  rose  to  go,  there  was  a  solemn  moment 
of  silence.  Then  the  old  minister,  with  his  hands  up 
lifted  above  the  young  minister's  head,  said  : 

"Almighty  God,  who  hath  given  you  this  will  to  do 
all  these  things,  grant  also  unto  you  strength  and  power 
to  perform  the  same,  that  He  may  accomplisli  His 

261 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

work  which  He  hath  begun  in  you,  through  Jesus 
Christ  our  Lord." 

Paul,  leaning  on  his  crutch,  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  said,  passionately,  "Amen." 

When  he  went  back  to  the  three  ladies,  the  uplift 
ing  of  that  moment  lingered  in  his  eyes.  He  came 
into  the  sitting-room,  where  Miss  Henrietta  and  Miss 
Maggy  were  at  work  ;  it  was  a  cool  September  day, 
and  a  little  fire  crackled  in  the  grate.  The  room  was 
hot,  and  smelled  of  worsted  ;  Miss  Henrietta's  canary 
hung  in  the  sunny  window,  cracking  his  hemp  seeds, 
and  ruffling  his  feathers  after  a  splashing  bath.  The 
two  ladies  were  rocking  and  knitting,  and  Miss  Hen 
rietta  had  been  saying  how  much  she  missed  rolling 
her  big  pink  ball  along  the  floor  for  Jacky  to  play 
with.  "  Though  he  didn't  play  much,"  she  said  ;  "he 
was  getting  old." 

"  I  used  to  think  he  was  lazy,"  observed  Miss 
Maggy,  comfortably. 

"  No,  he  wasn't,"  Miss  Henrietta  retorted.  "  You 
never  appreciated  Jacky." 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  Maggy  remonstrated  ;  "  only  I  never 
called  him  human." 

"  Human  ?  Well,  I  think  that  some  cats  are  nicer 
than  most  people,"  old  Henrietta  replied,  with  heat. 

It  was  just  then  that  Paul  came  in  to  report  the 
result  of  his  interview  with  Dr.  Lavendar.  He  was 
very  brief  about  it,  and  as  he  talked  the  solemn  look 
faded,  and  he  spoke  with  open  cheerfulness,  though 
with  reserve.  "  I  guess  he's  right,"  he  said  ;  "  the 
place  for  me  is  the  place  where  I'm  put ;  I  guess  he's 
right.  Well,  ladies,  I  came  to  say  good-bye,  and  to 
thank  you,  and — " 

262 


WHERE    THE    LABORERS   ARE    FEW 

"  Do  you  mean,"  said  Jane,  from  the  doorway  be 
hind  him,  "  that  Dr.  Lavendar  won't  help  you  to  be 
a  clergyman  ?"  Her  face  was  pale,  and  then  flooded 
with  crimson  ;  she  was  trembling  very  much.  "  It 
is  wicked !"  Her  voice  was  suddenly  shrill,  but 
broke  almost  into  a  sob.  "  You  ought  to  be  a  clergy 
man  !" 

Paul  held  up  his  hand  with  a  certain  authority. 
"  I  have  been  called  to  do  my  own  work,"  he  said. 

"  I  guess  Dr.  Lavendar's  right,  Janie,"  Miss  Maggy 
said,  soothingly.  "  Paul,  I'm  going  to  give  you  one 
of  Bishop  Jay's  sermons.  I've  copied  it  out,  and  I'm 
sure  you  will  make  good  use  of  it." 

Then  she  asked  some  friendly  questions  about  his 
route,  and  brought  him  the  sermon,  and  a  little 
luncheon  she  had  prepared  ;  and  then  Paul  began 
to  make  his  adieux.  He  said  much  of  their  kindness 
to  him,  and  his  wish  that  he  could  ever  have  the 
chance  to  do  anything  for  them  ;  while  they  politely 
deprecated  anything  that  they  had  done.  Miss  Hen 
rietta  shook  hands  with  him,  and  said  that  if  he 
should  meet  a  white  cat  anywhere,  to  be  sure  and 
see  if  he  answered  to  the  name  of  Jacky.  Miss 
Maggy  bade  him  be  very  careful  of  his  limb,  and 
hoped  he  would  find  his  sister  better.  "  And  if  you 
ever  get  so  far  east  again,  you  must  come  and  see 
us,"  she  said,  kindly. 

Jane  gave  him  her  hand ;  but  she  let  it  slip  list 
lessly  from  his  fingers,  and  she  did  not  lift  her  eyes 
to  meet  his;  a  brother's  eyes — pitying  and  brave. 
"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  dully. 

Paul,  shouldering  his  knapsack,  waved  his  hat  gay- 
ly  and  started  off,  limping  down  the  path  to  the 
street 

263 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Well,  now  really,  for  a  person  in  his  position," 
said  Miss  Maggy,  "  he  has  behaved  very  well,  hasn't 
he?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  old  Henrietta  agreed  ;  "  and  he  was 
so  sympathetic,  too.  See,  Maggy,  this  needle  does 
make  a  looser  stitch — don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Jane  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  window  and 
looked  down  the  road,  where  there  was  a  little  cloud 
of  dust  for  a  moment ;  then  it  disappeared. 


SALLY 


18 


SALLY 


"  WHEN  I'm  a  man,  Sally,  and  you're  a  big  girl, 
we'll  get  married,"  Andrew  Steele  used  to  say  to  his 
little  neighbor  across  the  fence  of  their  back  yards. 
And  Sally  would  respond,  cheerfully,  "Yes,  Andrew; 
when  we  get  big,  we'll  get  married." 

In  those  days  they  lived  next  door  to  each  other, 
and  they  talked  across  the  fence,  and  played,  and 
went  to  school  together,  and  said  they  would  be 
married  when  they  grew  up.  But  when  Sally  was 
seventeen,  and  Andrew  was  seventeen  and  a  half, 
there  was  suddenly  a  break  in  their  friendship.  Sal 
ly  did  not  look  at  Andrew  in  church,  though  he  sat 
just  across  the  aisle.  Andrew  hung  back,  and  did 
not  walk  home  with  her  in  the  old  matter-of-fact 
way.  They  stood  apart  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives,  these  two  young  things,  regarding  each  other 
in  shy  silence  ;  and  then,  as  suddenly  as  the  simple 
melody  of  their  friendship  had  faltered  and  died 
away,  just  so  suddenly  the  music  burst  out  in  the 
profounder  harmony  of  love. 

They  told  each  other  about  it,  standing  shy  and 
blushing  on  the  wet  flag-stones  in  Andrew's  green 
house.  Sally,  a  little  plump  body,  with  a  freckled 

267 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

nose  and  pretty  red-brown  hair  ;  Andrew,  very  tall 
and  lanky,  all  wrists  and  ankles,  with  a  mild,  strong 
face.  They  scarcely  dared  to  look  at  each  other — 
the  color  coming  and  going  in  the  boy's  face  just 
as  in  the  girl's.  And  when  Sally  had  half  whisper 
ed — her  head  turned  away  from  him,  and  her  little 
fingers  pleating  and  crumpling  the  big  leaf  of  a  be 
gonia —  "Yes — Andrew;  I  —  I  do — care,"  Andrew 
had  said,  in  his  simple  way,  pretty  much  what  he 
had  said  when  they  were  children  :  "As  soon  as  we 
are  old  enough,  we'll  get  married,  Sally.  Because 
I've  loved  you  all  my  life."  And  Sally's  little  heart 
beat  so  hard  that  she  could  not  speak  for  happiness. 

"When  you  are  twenty -three  and  I'm  twenty- 
three  and  a  half,"  Andrew  said,  "  we'll  be  married." 

And  Sally  said,  "  Yes,  Andrew." 

He  kissed  her,  and  the  color  flooded  up  to  her 
temples  ;  then  the  boy  lifted  his  face  and  looked  up, 
silently;  but  his  lips  moved. 

All  this  was  just  after  Andrew's  mother  had  de 
cided  to  go  and  live  in  Upper  Chester  ;  and  though 
Andrew  was  to  come  back  and  forth  every  day  to 
the  greenhouse,  the  moving  meant  to  these  very 
young  people  the  tragedy  of  separation.  Very  likely 
it  was  that  that  brought  matters  to  a  head  and  re 
vealed  to  them  that  they  loved  each  other.  Except 
for  this  moving  away,  however,  the  course  of  true 
love,  for  once  in  this  rough  old  world,  ran  pretty 
smoothly.  No  cruel  elders,  with  the  common-sense 
derived  from  experience,  declared  that  calf-love  did 
not  last,  and  with  the  parental  right  to  break  hearts, 
forbade,  and,  separated,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  The 
fact  was,  Sally's  mother,  a  vague,  somewhat  foolish 
little  lady,  never  dreamed  of  interfering  with  her 

268 


THEY   TOLD    EACH    OTHER    ABOUT    IT 


SALLY 

children — especially  not  with  Sally,  who  was  the  eld 
est  girl ;  a  reliable,  sensible,  responsible  child,  who, 
when  her  father  died,  really  assumed  the  care  of  the 
noisy,  headstrong  family  of  brothers  and  sisters.  So 
when  Sally  said  she  was  engaged  to  Andrew,  Mrs. 
Smith  never  thought  of  objecting,  though  she  did 
not,  she  said,  like  Andrew's  mother.  "  But  you're 
not  going  to  marry  her,"  she  murmured,  vaguely. 
Then  she  kissed  Sally,  and  cried  a  little,  and  said  it 
was  too  bad  to  think  that  she  would  have  to  go  and 
live  in  Upper  Chester  with  Mrs.  Steele — "  unless  she 
dies  first,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  hopefully. 

When  the  young  fry  heard  the  news,  they  teased 
her,  and  Robert,  who  was  next  in  age  to  Sally,  cried 
out, 

"  Handy  Andy, 
Jack-a-dandy," 

and  referred  to  the  lovers  as  "the  long  and  the  short 
of  it."  Which  was  considered  an  exquisite  form  of 
wit  in  the  family  circle. 

On  Andrew's  side  there  was  no  objection.  "  Sal 
ly's  mother  is  a  goose,"  said  Mrs.  Steele,  "but  it 
doesn't  follow  that  Sally  is.  And  I  think  it  is  a  good 
thing  for  a  young  man  to  form  an  attachment  early 
in  life  ;  it  keeps  him  steady."  Then  she  reminded 
her  son  that  he  hadn't  any  money  of  his  own,  and 
he  was  too  young  to  think  of  getting  married.  "  But 
if  you  like  to  say  you're  engaged,  it  doesn't  hurt  the 
greenhouse,"  said  Mrs.  Steele. 

But,  of  course,  there  was  no  question  of  their 
being  married.  They  knew  they  were  too  young, 
and  they  knew  that  until  Andrew  could  earn  more 
they  were  too  poor.  In  their  sensible  way  they  had 
made  up  their  minds  to  all  that  when  Sally  said  "yes." 

269 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Of  all  those  good-looking  Smith  children,  Old  Ches 
ter's  favorite  (next  to  Sally)  was  Robert.  He  was 
a  handsome  boy,  with  good  manners  and  a  quick 
tongue,  that,  because  of  its  wit,  was  forgiven  many 
things.  Everybody  had  a  good  word  for  him,  for 
his  behavior,  his  intelligence,  his  sweet  temper  ;  and 
when  Robert  said  he  wanted  to  go  to  college,  Old 
Chester  said  that  Mrs.  Smith  ought  certainly  to 
manage  to  send  him,  because  he  had  more  brains 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  children  put  together  (ex 
cept  Sally). 

"  I  think  he  ought  to  go,  Andrew,"  said  Sally. 
Andrew  came  to  supper  at  the  Smiths'  on  alternate 
Sunday  nights,  riding  back  and  forth  from  Upper 
Chester  on  the  shaggy,  heavy  little  horse  that  did 
the  carting  for  the  greenhouse.  This  was  his  night, 
and  the  lovers  were  alone  for  their  usual  half-hour 
before  tea-time ;  after  that,  Andrew  would  go  into 
the  sitting-room  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Smith  and  the  two 
younger  girls,  and  play  with  the  little  boys,  and 
listen  to  Robert's  views  on  many  subjects — most  of 
all  upon  the  necessity  that  there  was  for  him  to  go 
to  college.  So  now  in  the  parlor — which  was  chilly, 
because  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  light  a  fire  just 
for  that  half-hour's  talk — Sally  confided  to  her  lover 
her  belief  that  the  boy  ought  to  have  his  wish. 

"  Can  you  afford  it,  Sally  ?"  Andrew  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  smiling  ;  "  I  guess  we  can  afford 
it ;  if  it's  best.  But  do  you  think  it  is  best,  An 
drew  ?" 

"  Well,"  the  young  man  said,  "  I'm  inclined  to 
think  it  would  be  a  good  thing.  Though  your 
mother  '11  miss  him  when  you  are  married.  It's  only 
eighteen  months  and  five  days  now,  Sally  ?" 

270 


SALLY 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  and  then  :  "  I  mark  the  days  off 
on  my  calendar,  you  know,  Andrew." 

Andrew  had  one  arm  around  her  waist,  and  held 
her  left  hand  in  his ;  after  this  one  tender  allusion 
they  talked  in  a  commonplace  way  of  how  Sally 
must  economize  to  manage  Robert's  education ; 
and  of  the  greenhouse ;  and  of  the  condition  of  what 
Andrew  called  "The  Fund" — which  meant  his  sav 
ings,  that  were  to  be  devoted  one  of  these  days  to 
house-furnishing — and  of  anything  else  that  came 
into  their  heads.  But  Sally  was  marking  the  days  off 
on  the  calendar  ! — and  it  was  only  eighteen  months 
and  five  days  until  she  should  be  twenty-three,  and 
he  twenty-three  and  a  half. 

He  kissed  her  when  it  was  time  to  go  out  to  the 
family,  and  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  for  a 
minute  ;  but  there  were  no  raptures. 

So  it  was  decided  that  Robert  should  be  sent  to 
college  ;  and  all  Old  Chester  applauded,  and  said  it 
was  very  proper  in  the  real  Smiths  to  make  such  an 
effort,  and  it  believed  that  the  boy  would  be  a  credit 
to  them  one  of  these  days. 

Robert  entered  the  university  that  autumn,  and 
Sally  was  to  be  married  when  he  came  home  in 
June  for  the  summer  vacation.  And  so  the  time 
passed.  Andrew's  mother  really  grew  fond  of  Sally 
(in  her  way) ;  "  the  only  thing  I  don't  like  about  her 
is  her  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Steele ;  and  also,  she  had 
her  opinion,  she  said,  of  two  people  who  were  going 
to  marry  on  air.  "  That's  about  all  Andrew's  father 
ever  got  out  of  the  greenhouse — air  !  and  damp  air, 
too.  Well,  Andrew  needn't  look  to  me  to  do  any 
thing  for  him  ;  I've  told  him  that.  They'll  have  to 
board  here,  because  I  can't  get  along  without  An- 

271 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

drew.  But  I  won't  have  this  house  overrun  by  the 
girl's  brothers  and  sisters.  Miss  Sally  Smith  can 
just  understand  that !" 

Miss  Sally  Smith  understood  it  perfectly,  and  felt 
very  sorry  that  Andrew's  mother  should  be  so  ill- 
tempered.  But,  all  the  same,  her  calendar  showed 
a  growing  expanse  of  diagonal  lines  over  the  days  ; 
and  by-and-by  it  was  only  three  months  before  "the 
day"  should  be  reached  !  Then  Mrs.  Smith  asked 
Sally  if  she  didn't  think  perhaps  she  ought  to  be 
getting  her  wedding-clothes  ready  —  which  was  an 
astonishingly  practical  remark  from  Mrs.  Smith. 
Sally  did  think  so.  And  so  the  younger  sisters 
and  the  mother  and  Sally  all  cut  and  stitched 
and  fitted  ;  and  Andrew  came  regularly  every 
other  Sunday  night ;  and  everybody  was  very 
happy. 

Sally  and  the  girls  were  sewing  away  in  the  dining- 
room  the  day  the  letter  with  the  bad  news  came  from 
Robert.  It  was  a  May  morning,  warm,  but  with  a 
cold  edge  in  the  wind ;  and  just  outside  the  dining- 
room  window  was  a  peach-tree,  all  shimmering  pink. 
The  long  dining-room  table  was  heaped  with  white 
nainsook  and  edgings,  and  there  was  even  a  little 
narrow  Valenciennes  lace,  which  was  the  apple  of 
Sally's  eye. 

"  Real  Val,  for  trimming  !"  she  said.  "  Mother,  I 
declare  it's  robbery  to  take  it  from  you." 

"  Why,  Sally,"  Mrs.  Smith  said,  "  it  has  been  lying 
there  in  my  piece-box  for  six  years  ;  I  don't  see  why 
you  shouldn't  use  it,  I'm  sure.  I  got  it  to  trim  a 
baptismal  robe  for  David  ;  and  then  I  couldn't  afford 
to  buy  the  robe  ;  so  I  never  used  it." 

"Well,  girls,"  Sally  announced  to  the  other  two 
272 


SALLY 

sisters,  "  when  your  turn  comes,  I'll  give  it  back  to 
you." 

"  Pooh  !"  said  Esther,  scornfully.  "  I'm  not  going 
to  be  married.  I'm  going  to  be  an  artist.  And 
when  I  get  rich,  I'll  buy  you  all  the  Valenciennes 
lace  you  want,  Sally." 

Little  Grace  lifted  her  serious  face,  and  watched 
Sally  measuring  off  the  precious  lengths,  and  put 
in  her  disclaimer  too  :  "  I  won't  want  any  lace.  I'm 
not  going  to  wear  things  like  that.  I  think  they  are 
worldly." 

"  Do  you,  dear  ?"  Sally  said,  in  her  kind  voice,  that 
never  held  any  disrespect.  "  I  don't.  Oh,  it  is  a 
pretty  good  old  world,  after  all  !"  she  ended,  joyous 
ly,  looking  out  at  the  rosy  torch  of  the  blossoming 
tree,  and  beyond  it,  into  the  soft  blue  sky.  And 
then  one  of  the  little  boys  came  in  with  Robert's 
letter. 

It  was  to  Sally,  not  to  his  mother,  as  usual,  which 
surprised  the  elder  sister  enough  to  make  her  put 
it  in  her  pocket  unopened,  though  Mrs.  Smith  said, 
with  a  little  note  of  disappointment  in  her  voice, 
"  Oh,  I  thought  it  was  from  Robert  ?" 

Then  some  one  asked  for  a  spool  of  90,  which,  not 
being  in  the  family  work-basket,  Sally  was  obliged 
to  run  up-stairs  to  her  own  room  to  fetch.  Sally 
never  thought  of  asking  either  of  the  girls  to  do 
anything  she  could  do  herself  ;  which  was  a  pity  for 
the  girls. 

She  must  have  had  to  search  for  the  spool  a  few 
minutes,  for  she  did  not  come  back  immediately. 

"  Mother  says,  '  Look  in  the  second  drawer  of  her 
work-table,'  "  Esther  called  up  to  her. 

"  Yes,"  Sally  answered,  briefly.  When  she  came 
273 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

down  with  the  spool  her  face  was  very  much  flushed, 
and  her  hands  were  not  steady. 

"  Why,  Sally,"  her  mother  said,  u  you  are  all  out 
of  breath.  I  wouldn't  run  up-stairs  that  way,  my 
child." 

"  No,  ma'am,"  Sally  answered,  obediently,  and  put 
her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  squeezed  the  letter.  She 
did  not  talk  very  much  after  that,  though  the  girls 
kept  up  their  pretty  chatter  of  wedding  clothes  and 
spring  weather  and  the  glow  that  the  peach-tree 
made,  standing  so  warm  and  rosy  right  up  against 
the  dining-room  window.  After  a  while  she  said  she 
thought  Andrew  was  out  in  the  greenhouse,  and  she 
would  run  across  and  speak  to  him.  So  she  folded 
up  her  sewing,  and  said  she  would  be  back  in  time 
to  bring  her  mother  her  beef-tea  at  eleven,  and  went, 
bareheaded,  out  into  the  cool  sunshine  of  the  back 
garden  and  across  the  road  to  the  greenhouse.  An 
drew  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  nursery  behind 
the  greenhouse,  and  when  he  saw  her  coming  he 
stopped  his  work  and  stood  still  and  watched  her, 
his  plain,  kind  face,  breaking  into  a  contented  smile. 
Sally's  hair  was  blowing  all  about  her  forehead,  and 
her  fresh  calico  dress  rustling  in  the  wind  ;  and  to 
Andrew's  eyes  she  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  world. 

"  Well.  Sally  ?"  he  said.  And  then  he  added,  anx 
iously,  "  You're  worried  ?" 

"  Yes,  Andrew."  Her  color  came  and  went,  and 
her  eyes  rilled.  "  Oh,  Andrew,  Robert  has  been 
cruelly,  cruelly  treated  !  He —  Oh,  Andrew,  what 
shall  I  do?  People  suspect  Robert  /"  she  burst  out — 
"  our  Bobby  !  They  say  he  is— a  thief  !  That  he  has 
stolen  something  from  one  of  the  tutors.  Robert !" 
she  ended,  with  passionate  contempt. 

274 


SALLY 

Andrew's  face  grew  anxious.  "  Sally,  first  of  all, 
are  you  sure  he  didn't  ?" 

"  Why,  Andrew  !  you— doubt  Robert  ?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  slowly  ;  "  not  any  more  than  I  would 
doubt  myself,  or  anybody.  But  I  can't  say  it  isn't 
possible.  I  can't  help  seeing  that  side  of  it." 

"  Oh,  Andrew  !  don't — don't !  He  is  innocent ;  he 
couldn't  do — that  /" 

"  I  don't  think  he  could,  Sally  ;  he's  your  brother," 
Andrew  said,  simply.  Then  she  gave  him  Robert's 
letter.  It  was  a  letter  full  of  blustering  indig 
nation  —  a  boy's  letter,  Andrew  said ;  incoherent, 
protesting,  angry,  frightened.  Andrew  sighed  and 
shook  his  head  when  he  folded  it  and  handed  it  back 
to  her.  "I'll  start  to-night,  Sally.  I'll  get  a  line 
from  Dr.  Lavendar  to  the  president,  just  saying  he 
has  known  Robert  all  his  life — " 

"  And  he  will  vouch  for  him,"  Sally  broke  in,  with 
a  sob.  If  she  had  not  been  a  sweet-hearted  woman, 
she  would  have  added,  "  if  you  won't !"  But  that 
was  not  Sally's  way.  Andrew  looked  around  for  a 
moment,  because  his  gardener  might  be  somewhere 
about  ;  and  then  he  kissed  her.  And  she  reached 
up  and  clun'g  to  him,  and  cried,  and  felt  certain  that 
he  would  make  everything  right. 

"Vouch  for  Bobby?"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  very  red 
and  angry  when  he  heard  the  story  Sally  and  An 
drew  told  him.  "  Of  course  I  will  vouch  for  Bobby  ! 
Sally,  my  child,  don't  worry.  Andrew  will  right  the 
boy  in  five  minutes.  If  he  doesn't,  I'll  go  myself ; 
I'll  send  the  Bishop  !" 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Lavendar,"  Sally  said,  the  tears  rolling 
down  her  cheeks,  "  it  is  such  a  comfort  to  hear  you 
talk  !" 

275 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Well,  come,  come  !  you  mustn't  cry  !  Here's  An 
drew  looking  as  though  he  were  going  to  be  hung 
at  the  sight  of  those  tears.  How  are  the  wedding 
clothes  coming  on  ?  There  !  That's  better  !"  For 
Sally  blushed  as  happily  as  every  young  thing  should, 
and  Andrew  gazed  at  her  in  open  pride  and  joy. 

"  Andrew  will  make  it  all  right,  I  know,"  Sally  said. 

It  was  very  satisfying  to  Dr.  Lavendar  to  see  how 
they  loved  each  other. 

So  Andrew  went.  And  while  he  was  gone— in 
deed,  it  must  have  crossed  him  on  the  way — another 
letter  came.  Alas !  alas !  Poor  Sally,  stumbling 
through  its  maze  of  excuses  and  explanations  and 
accusations,  read,  at  last,  confession  : 

"  I  only  meant  to  borrow  it,  of  course.  It  was  only 
$100.  Why  did  he  leave  it  in  his  desk  if  he  didn't 
want  anybody  to  take  it  ?  I  believe  it  was  a  trap ; 
but  I  only  borrowed  it.  I  meant  to  put  it  back  as  soon 
as  you  sent  me  my  allowance.  If  you  weren't  so  mean 
about  my  allowance,  I  wouldn't  have  had  to  borroiv. 
There's  no  use  making  a  fuss  about  it." 

Sally  read  the  letter,  and  then  sat  and  looked  at 
it.  "  Our  Robert,"  she  said,  once  or  twice.  "  Fa 
ther's  son — " 

After  a  while  she  gathered  up  her  courage,  poor 
child,  and  went  to  break  the  dreadful  news  to  Rob 
ert's  mother. 

Later  in  the  day — the  restless,  hopeless  day — she 
told  Dr.  Lavendar.  But  his  amazement  and  grief, 
his  shame,  even,  because  Robert  was  one  of  his  chil 
dren,  he  said,  gave  Sally  only  a  dull  sense  of  pity 
for  him.  For  herself  she  had  no  words  ;  she  sat  and 
looked  at  him,  and  wondered, -vaguely,  why  he  talked ; 

276 


SALLY 

she  could  not  talk.  Only  when,  out  of  his  humilia 
tion  and  sorrow,  he  came  to  face  the  practical  neces 
sities  did  she  seem  to  listen  to  him. 

"  Sally,  my  child,  tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  do." 

"  Andrew  will  see  the  President.  I  think  Robert 
won't  be  expelled.  But  he  will  come  home,  of  course." 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  quickly  ;  "  don't  spare  him  ;  let 
the  university  expel  him  !  Oh,  my  child,  the  Lord 
in  his  mercy  sends  consequences  to  our  sins,  or  there 
would  be  no  health  in  us.  Let  Robert  be  ashamed, 
if  you  would  save  his  soul  alive  !" 

Sally  looked  at  him  in  dull  and  miserable  astonish 
ment  ;  he  was  so  insistent  that  poor  Robert  should 
be  punished.  ("  As  if  the  doing  it  wasn't  punishment 
enough  !"  she  said  to  herself.) 

"  I  don't  understand,  Dr.  Lavendar  ;  but,  anyway, 
I  can't  have  father's  son  expelled  for — for  what  Rob 
ert  has  done.  I  know  he  didn't  mean  to  do  wrong  ; 
it  was  a  sudden  temptation,  and  he  didn't  realize — " 
Poor  Sally  broke  down  and  cried.  "  I'm  going  to 
have  him  come  home,  and — take  care  of  him.  And 
love  him.  And  I  think  people  needn't  know." 

"  You  can't  love  him  too  much,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
love  him  enough  to  let  him  suffer,  Sally.  Shame 
is  wholesome." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  no,"  she  said,  passion 
ately  ;  "  people  sha'n't  know  !" 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  pityingly.  "  Ah,  Sally, 
my  girl,  when  you  get  old  you'll  know  the  worth  of 
pain.  Poor  child,  you  can't  see  the  blessing  in  it 
yet,  can  you  ?  Well,  well ;  we  won't  tell  any  one 
about  it,  if  you  and  your  mother  think  best ;  but  I 
think  you're  wrong  ;  mind,  now,  I  think  you're  wrong 
Now,  what  about  the  money  ?" 

277 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  I  have  sent  it  to  his  tutor." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sir,"  she  said, 
wearily. 

"  I  mean,  how  is  Robert  to  pay  it  back  ?" 

"  I've  paid  it,  Dr.  Lavendar,"  she  explained  again. 
And  once  more  he  checked  her,  this  time  sternly  : 

"  Sarah,  Robert  must  pay  it  back.  He  must  earn 
it.  Let  his  body  teach  his  soul  its  lesson.  Let  him 
work  hard,  and  live  plainly.  Let  him  go  as  a  hand 
in  the  mills.  My  child,  don't  you  interfere  with 
Robert's  Heavenly  Father,  and  try  to  make  the  way 
of  the  transgressor  easy  !" 

Her  outcry  of  pain  and  entreaty  did  not  move  him. 

"  Do  your  duty,  Sarah,"  he  said,  frowning.  And 
then  he  added,  softening  a  little :  "  And  after  all, 
Sally,  he  might  as  well  go  to  work  now.  When  you 
and  Andrew  get  married  in  June,  you  can't  have  him 
tied  to  your  apron-string.  You'll  have  to  leave  him 
then." 

"  But  we  won't  be  married  in  June,"  said  Sally. 


Ill 

"  I  hope  you  won't  disapprove,"  Mrs.  Smith  said 
to  Dr.  Lavendar,  when  he  came  and  sat  beside  her 
in  a  long,  kind,  comforting  silence,  "  but  we  are  going 
to  have  Robert  stay  at  home.  Sally  thinks  it  is  best ; 
he  is  going  to  help  Andrew  in  the  greenhouse,  and 
Sally  can  look  after  him  all  the  time.  You  know 
they  are  not  going  to  be  married  this  summer." 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  Dr.  Lavendar. 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  do  without  Sally,"  the  poor  lady 
278 


SALLY 

said,  shrinking  and  whimpering.  "  Sally  saw  that 
herself.  She  knows  I  couldn't  get  along  without 
her,  now.  She  can  manage  Robert  better  than  I 
can.  He  always  had  so  much  will,"  she  ended,  sigh 
ing,  and  looking  tearfully  at  the  initial  on  her  hand 
kerchief. 

Dr.  Lavendar  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  You  think  I'm  doing  wrong,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

She  wept  a  little,  and  tried  feebly  to  argue  it  with 
him.  "  He  might  have  some  temptation  if  he  went 
away  from  us.  Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear  !" 

But  Dr.  Lavendar  spoke  his  mind  :  "  Set  Bobby  to 
work  ;  put  him  on  his  own  legs.  He  needs  some 
hard  knocks  !  Andrew's  greenhouse  is  too  easy  for 
him.  And,  I  tell  you,  it  isn't  right  for  Sally  and 
Andrew  to  wait,  ma'am  ;  it  isn't  right." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  she  said  ;  "  perhaps  it  isn't. 
But  I  couldn't  get  along  without  her,  you  know." 

And  Dr.  Lavendar  sighed,  and  gave  it  up. 

And  by-and-by  they  all  settled  back  into  a  sad  sort 
of  acceptance  of  the  situation  ;  Robert  was  sullen 
and  mortified,  but,  alas,  not  ashamed. 

Now  there  are  certain  great  angels  which  meet  us 
in  the  way  of  life  :  —  Pain  is  one;  Failure  is  one; 
Shame  is  one.  Pain  looks  us  full  in  the  eyes,  and 
we  must  wrestle  with  him  before  he  blesses  us.  Fail 
ure  brings  in  his  stern  hand  the  peace  of  renuncia 
tion.  Shame  bears  to  us  the  sense  of  sin,  which  is 
the  knowledge  of  God ;  his  hidden  face  shines  with 
the  mercy  of  Heaven  —  and  well  for  us  if  we  may 
look  into  it.  But,  alas,  poor  Robert  looked  only  at 
himself  ;  he  had  nothing  but  a  small  and  worthless 
mortification,  which  was  only  wounded  vanity.  He 

279 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

knew  that  his  sister's  marriage  had  been  put  off  for 
his  sake,  and  he  was  angry  that  it  was  so  ;  he  knew 
that  Sally  watched  him  with  hopeful  love,  and  he 
was  angry  at  the  hope  and  love ;  he  knew  that  he 
had  disgraced  his  family,  so  he  was  angry  at  his 
family. 

Dr.  Lavendar  watched  him,  sick  at  heart.  The 
fact  is,  theft  means  a  moral  kink,  which  is  probably 
congenital  (to  speak  spiritually),  and  leaves  small 
ground  for  hope.  The  tendency  may  be  checked,  or 
at  least  covered  up,  but  it  is  sure  to  break  out  again, 
some  day,  if  the  man  lives  long  enough.  Not  that 
Dr.  Lavendar  was  hopeless ;  he  was  never  hopeless 
of  anybody  ; — I  used  to  think  he  had  expectations 
for  Satan  —  but  he  was  wise  ;  so  he  was  deeply  dis 
couraged.  And  he  was  very  much  troubled  to  have 
Sally's  marriage  delayed. 

Andrew,  however,  had  conceded  almost  immedi 
ately  that  under  the  circumstances  it  was  Sally's 
duty  to  defer  her  marriage.  "  I  can  see  her  mother's 
side  of  it,"  he  said.  Mrs.  Smith  was  so  broken  by 
this  disgraceful  trouble  that  it  would  be  cruel  to 
take  Sally  away  from  her.  Perhaps  in  a  year  they 
could  be  married  ;  that  was  what  Andrew  count 
ed  on. 

But  that  year  of  waiting  was  not  like  those  first, 
young,  sweet  years.  Mrs.  Smith  was  more  helpless 
than  ever  ;  the  great  shock  of  Robert's  fault  seemed 
to  have  cut  some  spring  ;  she  was  never  the  same 
woman  again.  "  Sillier  than  ever,"  Mrs.  Steele  said. 
Certainly  she  was  a  little  more  vague,  a  little  more 
querulous  ;  perhaps  a  little  dulled  to  everything  ex 
cept  her  love  for  her  oldest  son.  She  was  sensitive 
to  any  remembrance  of  his  wrong-doing,  and  quick 

280 


SALLY 

to  resent  what  seemed  disapproval  or  even  anxiety 
on  Sally's  part. 

"  You  act  as  if  he  was  the  wickedest  person  in  the 
world  !"  she  would  say.  "  He  shouldn't  have  done 
it,  of  course  ;  but  he  was  thoughtless.  And  he  meant 
to  pay  the  money  back.  I  don't  see  anything  so  very 
wicked  in  that,"  she  would  sigh,  with  that  singular 
moral  obliquity  which  in  money  matters  seems  to 
belong  to  feminine  love. 

However,  the  days  came  and  went,  and  the  months 
slipped  into  each  other,  and  the  year  of  watching 
over  Robert  was  nearly  ended.  But  Mrs.  Smith  did 
not  grow  any  stronger,  or  any  more  sensible  ;  so, 
by-and-by,  when  nearly  another  year  had  gone,  Sally 
began  to  say  that  she  could  not  go  away  from  home 
until  Esther  was  old  enough  to  take  her  place. 
"When  Esther  is  eighteen,  Andrew,  she  can  help 
mother.  That's  only  two  years  more,"  she  said, 
with  courage. 

"  But  you  took  charge  of  everything  when  you 
were  seventeen,  Sally,"  he  reminded  her,  moodily. 

"  Yes,  Andrew  ;  but  that  was  different.  I  had  to. 
And  I  can  see  now  I  really  was  too  young.  Now 
wasn't  I  ?" 

And  Andrew,  with  reluctant  truth,  was  obliged 
to  admit  that  he  thought  she  was.  "  A  girl  oughtn't 
to  have  such  responsibilities,"  he  said  ;  "  I  can  see 
that  side  of  it,  Sally."  Then  he  stopped  and  calcu 
lated  for  a  minute.  "Well,  Sally,  when  you  are 
twenty-seven,  and  I  am  twenty-seven  and  a  half — " 

"  Yes,  Andrew." 

So  the  definite  period  of  postponement  was  faced, 
and  the  days  went  bravely.  That  winter  Robert 
had  a  chance  to  read  law  in  an  office  in  Mercer, 
19  281 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

which  gave  him  some  sort  of  hold  on  life  again,  while 
at  the  same  time  it  lifted  the  cloud  of  his  idle  and 
discontented  presence  at  home.  Grace  and  Esther 
shot  up  into  big  girls.  Esther  drawing  and  paint 
ing,  and  calling  herself  an  artist,  according  to  Old 
Chester  lights  ;  and  Grace,  a  queer,  morbid,  anxious 
child,  who  was  always  fumbling  about  in  her  mind 
for  a  vocation.  "  Isn't  it  strange  ?"  Sally  confided 
once  to  Andrew  ;  "  when  I  was  a  girl  I  never  was 
thinking  what  I  was  going  to  do.  Why,  there  isn't 
anything  special  to  do  —  except  just  grow  up,  and 
please  mother,  and  make  the  little  boys  happy,  and 
go  to  church  on  Sundays.  It  seems  to  me  that's 
enough,"  Sally  said,  thoughtfully.  "  But  I  suppose 
that's  because  I  haven't  any  talents." 

"  Esther  will  be  seventeen  the  5th  of  next  month," 
Andrew  reminded  her.  "A  year  and  one  month 
more,  Sally  1" 

"  Yes,  Andrew  ;  only  a  year  and  one  month.  Oh, 
Andrew,  did  you  see  her  last  picture  ?  It's  wonder 
ful  !"  And  Sally,  with  careful  pride,  displayed  a 
drawing  of  Clytie.  "  She  copied  it  from  that  Parian 
marble  one  in  the  parlor,  you  know.  Miss  Annie 
Shields  says  she  ought  to  go  and  study  drawing  at 
the  School  of  Design  in  Mercer.  She's  wild  to  ! 
And  I  don't  know  why  she  shouldn't,  if  we  can  af 
ford  it." 

"  Well,  now,  Sally,"  Andrew  said,  "  why  can't  she  ? 
Let  me  help." 

And  such  was  the  simplicity  of  Sally's  love  that 
she  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  help,  if  help 
were  needed.  "  But  I  don't  need  it,  Andrew.  I 
think  I  can  manage  her  board  ;  and  the  tuition  is 
free,  you  know.  But — but  do  you  think  it  would  be 

282 


SALLY 

well,  Andrew  ?"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  break  in  her 
voice.  "  You  know — " 

"  Yes ;  but  Esther  is  different.  I  would  trust 
Esther  anywhere." 

He  saw  his  Sally's  eyes  fill  at  the  remembrance  of 
how  together  they  had  planned  that  other  flight  into 
the  world.  Poor  Robert !  It  had  cut  deep,  that  stab 
of  shame  and  sorrow.  Andrew  took  her  hand  in  his 
and  kissed  it ;  and  she  put  her  head  down  on  his 
shoulder,  and  knew  he  understood. 

So  it  was  settled  ;  and  when  the  fall  term  opened, 
Esther,  excited,  eager,  hopeful,  started  out  to  "  study 
art"  for  one  year. 

w  She  has  great  talent,"  Miss  Annie  Shields  told 
Sally,  with  enthusiasm.  "  We'll  hear  from  her  one 
of  these  days  !  She'll  be  in  Paris  in  one  of  the  stu 
dios  before  we  know  it." 

"  In  Paris  ?"  Sally  said,  with  a  startled  look. 

Miss  Shields  laughed  a  little,  and  put  her  arm 
about  her.  "  My  dear,  Esther  is  going  to  be  an 
artist,  and  that  means  a  long  road  to  travel." 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,"  Sally  agreed  ;  "  but — " 
Then  she  stopped,  and  her  open  face  clouded  a  little. 

But  whatever  her  disturbed  thought  was,  she  ban 
ished  it.  Esther  was  going  to  have  a  winter  at  the 
School  of  Design ;  then  she  would  come  home,  and 
Sally  would  get  married. 

That  was  a  very  peaceful  winter  to  the  "  real 
Smiths."  As  early  as  January,  although  the  family 
laughed  at  her  a  little,  Sally  began  to  plan  her  wed 
ding  clothes  again,  and  the  unfinished  wedding  dress 
was  taken  from  its  wrapping  of  silver  paper  to  be 
altered,  so  as  to  be  in  the  fashion,  and  finished — for 
the  wedding  was  to  be  in  June.  Esther's  visits,  and 

283 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

her  work,  and  her  "  standing,"  were  weekly  interests. 
There  were  good  reports  of  Robert  from  the  law 
yer's  office  in  Mercer.  The  two  boys  David  and 
John  were  vigorous,  open-air  little  fellows,  who  kept 
Grace  and  Sally  busy  mending  and  brushing,  and 
helping  them  with  their  lessons.  Grace  was  more 
contented,  too  ;  which  was  a  great  comfort  to  Sally. 
The  child  began  to  read  devout  books  and  have  in 
tense  religious  experiences ;  and  she  would  have 
gone  to  church  three  times  a  day, — if  only  Dr.  Lav- 
endar  had  been  of  the  same  mind  in  regard  to  ser 
vices.  But  when  she  said  to  him  once,  with  timid 
passion,  that  she  wished  he  would  have  church  on 
all  the  saints'  days — he  only  replied,  cheerfully,  that 
every  day  was  a  Saint's  day  for  staying  at  home  and 
helping  her  mother  and  Sally.  "  Don't  ye  forget 
that,  Gracie,  my  dear  !"  he  said,  his  kind  eyes  twink 
ling  at  her  in  such  a  friendly  way  that  the  snub  did 
not  hurt  her  feelings  ;  perhaps  it  would  have  been 
more  wholesome  if  it  had. 

"  She's  a  little  saint,"  Sally  told  Andrew.  "  Oh, 
Andrew,  that  child  makes  me  really  ashamed  of  my 
self  ;  she's  only  fifteen,  but  she  cares  more  for — for 
things  like  that  than  I  ever  did  in  all  my  life." 

"  I  think  she  is  a  good  child,"  Andrew  agreed  ; 
"  but  you're  good  enough,  Sally.  I  don't  think  I'd 
want  you  to  be  any  better,"  he  said,  thoughtfully. 

"  I'm  not  good  at  all !"  she  said,  laughing.  "  I'd 
never  have  the  patience  to  read  all  those  books 
Gracie  does." 

"  Well,  it  isn't  all  books, — religion,"  Andrew  said. 
They  were  standing  by  the  bench  of  seedling  carna 
tions  in  the  greenhouse,  and  Sally  had  been  watch 
ing  him  splitting  down  the  stems  in  search  of  a  fat 

284 


SALLY 

white  grub  that  was  turning  all  the  cool  gray-green 
into  a  sickly  yellow.  Andrew  touched  his  flowers 
as  if  he  loved  them,  and  when  he  tore  open  the  heart 
of  a  carnation  to  discover  the  enemy,  his  mild  face 
puckered  with  sympathy.  It  was  a  sunny  winter 
morning,  with  a  glare  of  snow  outside  ;  but  in  the 
greenhouse  the  air  was  moist,  and  warm,  and  full 
of  the  scent  of  roses  and  wet  earth  and  growing 
things.  There  was  a  soft  green  mould  on  the  azalea 
pots  and  on  the  curb  of  a  little  pool,  which  was  sunk 
in  the  flag-stones  and  bordered  by  callas  ;  the  water 
was  still  and  dark,  with  a  sudden  glitter  now  and 
then  in  its  placid  depths,  when  a  goldfish  turned  his 
shining  side,  or  came  up  to  the  surface  for  a  fly. 

Suddenly  Andrew  put  down  his  knife  and  twine, 
and  took  Sally's  two  hands  in  his.  "  Oh,  Sally,"  he 
said,  "  you  are  good  !  Sometimes  I  think  if  you 
weren't  so  good  we  would  have  been  married  by  this 
time  !"  His  face  quivered  as  he  spoke.  Sally  slipped 
her  arm  through  his  silently.  "  We've  waited  so  long," 
the  young  man  said,  with  a  hard  note  in  his  voice. 

Sally  put  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder.  "  Yet  I 
couldn't  leave  mother,  could  I,  dear  ?" 

Andrew  took  up  his  knife  and  twine  again  with 
a  long  sigh.  "  No,  Sally,  no.  I  can  see  that  side 
of  it.  But—" 


IV 

Robert  did  so  well  in  the  lawyer's  office  that  by- 
and-by  his  good-humored  assurance  came  back  to 
him,  his  old  intelligent  certainty  of  ability.  And  on 
the  strength  of  it — plus  his  allowance  from  the  fam 
ily  purse — he  got  married. 

285 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

He  did  not  see  fit  to  notify  his  family,  however, 
until  the  deed  was  done,  and  a  smart,  pretty  Mercer 
girl,  "  of  no  family  whatever,"  Old  Chester  said,  his 
wife.  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  why,  occa 
sionally,  a  person  of  decent  and  refined  traditions 
commits,  without  cause,  the  vulgarity  of  a  secret 
marriage.  However,  nobody  can  say  there  is  any 
thing  actually  wrong  about  it ;  unless  bad  taste  is 
wrong.  Sally  and  her  mother  may  have  felt  hot 
and  ashamed,  but  they  kept  their  own  counsel,  and 
said  they  were  glad  to  have  Bobby  have  a  home  of 
his  own.  Grace  looked  grave  and  troubled  ;  but  Es 
ther  spoke  out  her  angry  thought  :  "  Robert  ought 
to  do  something  for  mother,  instead  of  getting  mar 
ried  in  this  low,  underhand  way  !" 

"  Don't  you  think,  Esther,"  Sally  suggested,  "  that 
perhaps  you  ought  to  live  with  Robert  now,  in  Mer 
cer,  instead  of  boarding?  He  spoke  of  it  to  me.  It 
would  help  him  a  little,  and — it  would  seem  kinder." 

"  Indeed  I  won't  !"  Esther  declared,  hotly.  "I'm 
ashamed  of  him,  Sally.  I  don't  want  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  him,  or  his  wife  either.  I  know 
she's  horrid,  or  she  wouldn't  have  married  him." 

This  decided  expression  of  Esther's  will  troubled 
the  elder  sister,  and  it  came  upon  another  trouble 
which  was  heavy  on  her  heart,  and  which  must  be 
told  to  Andrew. 

It  was  dusk,  and  they  were  walking  along  the  river 
road  ;  Sally  was  very  silent,  which  was  not  usual, 
and  Andrew  was  talking  a  good  deal  of  their  own 
little  comfortable  commonplace  interests.  They 
stopped  on  the  bridge  for  a  few  minutes,  and  leaned 
on  the  hacked  and  whittled  hand-rail,  looking  some 
times  at  the  dark,  smooth  current  below  them,  and 

286 


SALLY 

sometimes  at  the  black  fringe  of  trees  along  the 
bank,  but  mostly  at  each  other.  A  prosaic  pair,  per- 
hcfps,  one  might  have  thought  them  ;  Sally  was  get 
ting  stout,  and  she  had  taken  to  spectacles  lately, 
because  she  was  near-sighted  ;  she  wore  her  hair 
drawn  rather  tightly  back  from  her  face,  and  twist 
ed  into  a  little  knob  ;  it  was  the  quickest  way  to 
arrange  it,  she  said;  and  when  every  minute  in  your 
day  is  full,  the  quickest  arrangement  of  your  hair 
is  a  consideration.  Andrew,  tall  and  thin,  had  deep 
lines  on  his  forehead,  that  meant  patient  disappoint 
ment  ;  and  he  had  the  stoop  which  comes  from  bend 
ing  over  cold  frames  and  poking  about  roots  for 
borers,  which  made  him  look  much  older  than  he 
was. 

"  Esther  doesn't  like  Robert's  wife,  Andrew,"  Sal 
ly  said;  "and  she  won't  live  with  them.  Grace  is 
going  to  Mercer  next  month  to  visit  her ;  Grace  is 
so  good  about  such  things  !" 

"  Well,  Sally,"  Andrew  said,  in  a  comforting  voice, 
"  it  would  be  nice  if  Esther  felt  it  her  duty  to  be 
with  Robert  —  but  I  can  see  her  side  of  it.  She 
doesn't  like  his  wife,  and  it  wouldn't  be  pleasant  to 
live  with  her.  And  you  know  Esther's  young  yet." 

"  Yes,"  Sally  agreed,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Besides,  she  only  has  to  finish  this  term,"  An 
drew  reminded  her. 

Sally  drew  in  her  breath,  and  looked  away  from 
him.  "Andrew,"  she  said,  "Esther  says  that  she 
wants  to  have  four  years  at  the  School  of  Design, 
instead  of  one  ;  she  says  it  is  an  actual  necessity. 
That  unless  she  can  take  the  whole  course" — Sal 
ly's  voice  began  to  break  —  "it  is  just  a  waste  of 
money  to  have  taken  part  of  it." 

287 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Why,  but,  Sally—"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  But  I  don't  see  what  can 
be  done.  I  can  see  that  to  stop  in  the  middle  is  bad. 
Only — I  never  thought  of  it  when  she  began." 

"  But,  Sally,"  he  protested,  "  we  cannot  possibly 
wait  any  longer !" 

"  I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  ;  of  course  I  couldn't 
leave  mother  and  the  boys  to  Grace ;  she  isn't 
nearly  old  enough.  You  see  that,  Andrew  ?  Oh, 
Andrew  —  please  help  me — please  !"  Sally  said,  and 
put  her  face  down  on  her  arms  on  the  railing,  and 
he  felt  that  she  was  crying.  The  poor  fellow  stood 
speechless  beside  her.  The  river  whispered  and 
washed  against  the  wooden  pier  in  mid-stream.  Sal 
ly  did  not  speak. 

"  But,  Sally,"  he  said,  "  why,  only  this  afternoon 
I  was  counting  up  the  days  ;  and  this  would  make 
it  three  years!  Sally"  —  he  caught  his  breath,  al 
most  in  a  sob — "you  belong  to  me  !" 

At  that  she  lifted  her  head,  with  a  smile  that  was 
like  sudden  sunshine  on  a  cloudy  day.  "  Why,  An 
drew,  that's  just  it  !  That's  what  makes  it  possible 
to  wait ;  and  you  see  for  yourself  I  can't  leave  home. 
Mother  is  really  an  invalid  now  ;  and  think  how 
much  care  Johnny  and  David  are.  Grace  couldn't 
take  charge  of  the  house.  Esther  wants  to  be  an 
artist,  and  it  would  be  cruel  to  take  the  chance  away 
from  her,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

"  How  about  the  cruelty  for  us  ?"  Andrew  said, 
breathing  hard. 

"  But  Esther  is  eighteen  now,"  Sally  said  ;  "  she 
really  has  a  right  to  decide  for  herself.  Only — it's 
hard  on  you,  Andrew."  Sally's  little  round  chin 
shook,  and  she  looked  up  at  him,  trying  not  to  cry. 

288 


SALLY 

It  was  so  hard  that  Andrew,  though  he  set  himself 
to  cheer  her,  quietly,  in  his  own  mind,  refused  to 
accept  the  delay.  He  evolved  a  plan  :  he  would  ask 
Mrs.  Smith  whether,  if  he  and  Sally  got  married, 
they  might  come  and  live  with  her.  "  I'd  have  to 
bring  mother,"  he  reflected  ;  "she  isn't  well  enough 
to  live  alone ;  but  they  owe  Sally  that." 

However,  owing  doesn't  mean  paying,  as  any 
butcher  or  baker  or  candlestick-maker  can  tell  you  ; 
and  when  it  comes  to  relations,  the  payment  of  con 
sideration  is,  alas,  even  more  uncertain.  Mrs.  Smith 
cried,  and  said  of  course  Sally  must  do  as  she  thought 
best.  If  she  was  so  anxious  to  get  married  that  she 
had  to  bring  strangers  into  the  house,  why,  she  must 
do  it,  that  was  all.  Then  she  told  Sally  hysterically 
that  she  had  always  disliked  Mrs.  Steele ;  she  was 
a  disagreeable,  bad  -  tempered  old  woman,  and  she 
didn't  know  why,  at  her  time  of  life,  she  should  have 
to  live  in  the  same  house  with  her.  "  If  you'll  wait 
a  little  while,"  she  said,  "  I  won't  be  in  your  way. 
Andrew's  been  content  to  wait  ten  years  now ;  I  don't 
see  why  he  should  suddenly  be  in  such  a  dreadful 
hurry.  Still— do  as  you  want,  Sally  ;  you've  always 
had  your  own  way,  and  you  always  will !" 

But  even  if  Mrs.  Smith  had  been  complaisant,  An 
drew's  plan  could  not  have  been  carried  out.  Mrs. 
Steele  was  aghast  at  the  very  idea  of  such  a  thing. 
She  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for  Andrew — 
in  reason  ;  but  if  Sally  Smith  didn't  love  him  enough 
to  leave  her  mother  for  him,  she  had  better  not  mar 
ry  him.  In  her  young  days  a  girl  did  not  expect  to 
take  her  husband  home  to  live  with  her.  And  as  for 
going  and  living  in  the  same  house  with  that  silly 
Smith  woman—  As  for  giving  up  her  own  home 

289 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

in  Upper  Chester,  and  going  back  to  Old  Chester 
(which  she  had  always  hated)  —  well,  really!  An 
drew  must  be  crazy  ! 

"  Then  let  me  bring  the  Smiths  here,"  Andrew 
said,  boldly.  At  which  Mrs.  Steele  spoke  her  mind 
with  such  unpleasant  frankness  that  her  son  grew 
white  with  anger. 

"  Sally's  kept  you  dangling  round  ten  years,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  guess  now  she's  afraid  of  being  an  old 
maid,  and  so  she  thinks  she  better  take  you,  for  fear 
she  won't  get  another  chance.  I  guess  she — " 

"Hold your  tongue  /"  said  Andrew  Steele. 

But  he  gave  his  project  up. 

Yes, of  course,  as  Sally  said,  it  was  hard;  but  after 
the  first  shock  of  it,  he  set  himself  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  When  Esther  should  finish  her  course 
at  the  School  of  Design,  and  could  come  home,  he 
and  Sally  would  be  married.  When  she  was  thir 
ty  and  he  was  thirty  and  a  half,  their  time  would 
come. 

Of  course,  Old  Chester  had  its  opinion  of  all  this  : 
Willy  King's  wife  even  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  it 
was  somebody's  duty  to  tell  the  "  real  Smiths,"  flatly 
and  frankly,  that  they  were  just  sacrificing  Sally  to 
their  own  selfishness.  There  is  every  reason  to  sup 
pose  that  Martha  King  took  this  duty  upon  herself, 
for  it  was  known  that  after  a  call  from  her,  Mrs. 
Smith  cried  steadily  for  two  days  ;  which  lost  Sally 
a  night's  sleep,  and  did  not  hasten  her  wedding-day 
at  all,  for  Esther  continued  to  draw  ginger  jars  and 
lemons,  with  folds  of  red  cloth  arranged  behind  them, 
and  to  dream  of  a  great  future.  Once  she  told  Sally 
she  thought  she  was  foolish  not  to  get  married. 
"Mother  could  get  along,"  she  said. 

290 


SALLY 

"  No,  dear,  she  couldn't,"  Sally  said,  and  that  was 
all  there  was  to  it. 

When  the  fall  term  opened,  Sally  again  suggested 
that  Esther  should  board  with  Robert ;  "  mother  has 
to  help  him  a  little,  you  know,  Esther,  and  it  would 
be  easier  for  everybody  if  you  would  live  with 
him." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  easier  for  me,  my  dear,"  Esther 
said,  laughing  ;  "his  wife  is  simply  impossible.  She 
uses  perfumery,  and  has  an  awful  voice  !  And  now 
that  there  is  going  to  be  a  baby — no,  I  thank  you  !" 

Robert's  baby  came  that  winter  ;  and  though  he 
was  doing  fairly  well,  considering  how  young  he  was, 
his  mother  had  to  help  him  sometimes,  which  kept 
the  family  purse  rather  low.  As  for  his  wife,  she 
came  to  visit  her  mother-in-law  once,  and  told  Sally 
she  thought  she  was  a  perfect  idiot  not  to  marry  her 
fellow,  and  get  a  house  of  her  own  with  new  furniture 
in  it.  "All  these  big,  clumsy  mahogany  things  have 
no  style,"  said  Carrie.  "  When  the  house  comes  to 
Rob,  I'm  going  to  send  'em  all  to  auction,  Sally. 
You  can  get  beautiful  parlor  sets  in  Mercer  now 
real  cheap.  Red  and  green  rep,  and  tan  terry,  with 
backs  all  turned  in  grape-vines  and  things." 

But  Carrie,  in  her  way,  liked  her  husband's  family, 
and  was  generous  to  them.  She  gave  Grace  a  really 
pretty  necklace,  and  was  much  affronted  at  the  girl's 
attitude  towards  it. 

"  You're  very  kind,  sister  Carrie,"  Grace  said ; 
"  but  I  don't  think  jewelry  is  right.  I  think  it  is 
sinful.  So  I'll  give  it  to  Esther  or  Sally,  if  you  don't 
mind?" 

"  I  don't  mind  what  you  do  with  it,  I'm  sure," 
Mrs.  Robert  said,  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  "  But  I 

291 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

think  you  are  a  very  queer  little  girl,  to  try  and 
make  Esther  or  Sally  sinful." 

Grace  looked  at  her  with  her  big,  visionary  blue 
eyes,  and  said,  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sister 
Carrie." 

"  Well,  don't  bother,"  Carrie  said,  crossly.  "  Here, 
give  it  back  to  me.  I  don't  mind  being  sinful." 

Grace,  horrified,  crept  away  and  prayed  for  this 
lost  soul  passionately,  and  then  as  passionately  for 
her  own  soul.  Just  then  Grace's  soul  was  of  great 
importance  to  Grace.  Her  church-going  became  a 
little  inconvenient  at  times  ;  but  Sally,  tender  and 
reverent  of  her  little  sister's  devoutness,  was  always 
glad  to  have  the  child  go. 

"  She's  a  little  saint,"  she  told  her  mother,  her 
kind  eyes  beaming  behind  her  glasses. 

"  Oh  yes,  she's  good,"  Mrs.  Smith  said,  vaguely  ; 
"but  I  think  she  ought  to  know  more  about  house 
work  and  sewing." 

"  But  she  hasn't  time,  really,"  Sally  said  ;  "  she 
reads  aloud  in  the  Poorhouse  Infirmary  every  other 
morning,  and  she  has  her  Sunday  -  school  class  to 
look  after,  and  she  goes  to  Upper  Chester  three 
times  a  week  to  distribute  tracts.  Besides,  Gracie 
doesn't  like  house  -  work ;  and  I  love  to  do  her 
mending  for  her.  But,  mother,  do  you  know  since 
she  came  back  from  Mercer  she's  possessed  that 
Dr.  Lavender  should  have  an  early  communion — 
'Celebration,'  she  calls  it  —  at  six.  She  went  to  a 
very  high  church  there.  Imagine  Dr.  Lavendar  get 
ting  up  at  five  o'clock  !  And  who  would  go,  any 
way  ?  Nobody  but  Grace,  I'm  sure.  She  told  Dr. 
Lavendar  about  it,  and  what  do  you  suppose  he  said  ? 
*  Rags  of  popery  !  Rags  of  popery  !'  " 

292 


SALLY 

Afterwards— it  was  the  winter  before  Esther  fin 
ished  her  fourth  year  at  the  School  of  Design — when 
Grace,  burning  with  the  passion  of  her  divine  pur 
pose,  told  her  sister  that  she  wanted  to  enter  a  sister 
hood  and  that  she  believed  herself  "called,"  Sally 
looked  back  over  the  years  of  the  child's  singularly 
absorbed  religious  life,  and  admitted  that  the  "  call 
ing  "  was  from  heaven. 

"  Mother  dear,"  the  oldest  daughter  urged,  "  you 
know  Grace  is  old  enough  to  know  her  own  mind  ; 
and,  indeed,  indeed,  I  would  not  dare  to  interfere. 
Grace  has  been  like  this  all  her  life.  I  have  always 
felt  that  she  was  nearly  an  angel,  anyhow  !" 

Mrs.  Smith  wept,  in  a  weak,  desultory  way,  and 
said  that  when  she  was  young  she  never  heard  of  a 
Protestant  girl  going  into  a  convent  to  be  a  nun. 

"  It  isn't  a  convent,  mother  dear,"  Sally  explained  ; 
"  it's  a  sisterhood  of  our  Church.  They've  had  them 
in  England  a  good  while,  but  this  is  the  first  one  in 
this  country.  And  Grace  won't  be  a  nun  ;  she'll  be 
a  sister,  and  learn  to  be  a  nurse,  so  she  can  take  care 
of  the  sick." 

"  She'd  better  be  a  sister  to  Johnny  and  David," 
sighed  Mrs.  Smith  ;  "  and  she  can  nurse  me,  Sally. 
I'm  sure  I'm  sick  enough,"  the  poor  lady  said.  "  And 
I  don't  see  how  she  can  go  off  and  leave  it  all  on  you. 
It  seems  to  me,  if  being  a  good  daughter  is  anything, 
you're  just  as  religious  as  Grace,  every  single  bit." 

"  Oh,  mother  dear,"  protested  Sally,  "  you  know 
I'm  not  like  Grace  !  I  wish  I  were,"  she  ended, 
with  a  sigh. 

For  Sally,  who  was  thirty  and  stout  and  very  near 
sighted,  never  knew  that  she  was  one  of  the  shining 
ones. 

293 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Yet,  alas,  how  the  shining  ones,  by  their  very  shin 
ing,  do  make  it  easy  for  the  rest  of  us  to  walk  in  dark 
ness  ! 


So  Grace,  with  all  the  egotism  of  the  religious 
temperament,  set  about  saving  her  clean,  narrow, 
good  little  soul.  Sally  had  had  a  passing  thought 
that,  as  Esther's  art  had  held  her  from  those  house 
hold  duties  which  she  was  to  assume  when  Sally 
married,  Grace,  nearly  eighteen,  might  offer  to  take 
them  up,  even  though  (as  Sally  had  to  acknowledge) 
the  child  was  singularly  incapable  owing  to  the  re 
ligious  preoccupation  of  these  later  years.  But,  af 
ter  all,  Sally  told  herself,  humbly,  Grace  had  chosen 
the  better  part.  To  give  her  life  to  the  service  of 
God — how  much  greater  that  was  than  just  the  com 
mon,  easy  duties  of  love  ! 

So  Sally  and  Andrew  waited  for  the  end  of  Esther's 
course  at  the  School  of  Design. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  impatiently — 
"I  don't  like  it  at  all.  Andrew,  I  wouldn't  put  up 
with  it !  Go  and  tell  Sally  so,  and  I'll  come  round 
after  supper  and  marry  you." 

Andrew  laughed,  and  took  up  a  trowelful  of  sand, 
and  sifted  it  over  the  roots  of  his  callas.  Then  he 
frowned,  poor  fellow  !  and  sighed.  "  I'm  afraid  it 
can't  be  helped.  Now  just  look  at  it :  Grace  is  go 
ing  away,  and  Esther  is  at  her  school.  Somebody 
has  got  to  run  the  house  ;  Mrs.  Smith  isn't  well 
enough  to  do  it.  I  can't  help  seeing  that  side  of  it, 
Dr.  Lavender,"  he  ended,  gloomily. 

"Well,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  impatiently,  "it  all 
294 


SALLY 

seems  to  me  perfectly  unnecessary.  I  can  think  of 
a  dozen  ways  this  thing  could  be  arranged,  and  you 
and  Sally  married.  First  place,  you  needn't  have 
waited  on  Robert's  account." 

"  That's  all  said  and  done,"  Andrew  reminded  him, 
mildly  ;  "  but  I'd  like  to  hear  even  half  a  dozen  ways 
this  could  be  arranged,  sir  ?" 

"  Very  well ;  I'll  tell  you  :  get  married  next  week, 
and  let  Sally  come  home  every  few  days  and  look 
after  that  poor,  helpless  mother  of  hers." 

"  Mrs.  Smith  needs  her  all  the  time,"  Andrew  ob 
jected,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Then  let  Grace  take  care  of  her  !  I  don't  approve 
of  this  running  out  into  the  world  to  look  for  a  duty 
when  you  have  a  hundred  right  under  your  nose  !" 

"  Well,  yes  ;  but  Grace  has  made  up  her  mind," 
Andrew  said,  sadly. 

"  Then  let  Sally  make  up  her  mind,"  Dr.  Lavendar 
retorted  ;  "  or  else  —  well,  why  don't  you  and  Sally 
live  at  home  with  Mrs.  Smith  ?" 

"  I  can't  leave  mother ;  she's  old  and  feeble,  and 
needs  me." 

"  Take  her  along." 

"  She  wouldn't  like  to  leave  her  own  home,  sir.  I 
can  see  her  side  of  it." 

"  Well,  then,  hire  somebody  to  take  care  of  her — 
or  else  to  take  Sally's  place  with  Mrs.  Smith." 

"We  haven't  money  enough  for  that,"  Andrew 
answered,  calmly.  "  And  I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Smith 
could  get  along  without  Sally  ;  nobody  could  take 
her  place." 

"Then  let  Esther  give  up  this  nonsense  of  hers  !" 
Dr.  Lavendar  said,  angrily.  He  did  not  like  to  be 
pushed  into  a  corner  by  Andrew,  or  anybody  else. 

295 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  I  tell  you,  Andrew,"  he  went  on,  pounding  the  flag 
stones  with  his  umbrella,  "  you  ought  to  have  gone 
to  the  Smiths  half  a  dozen  years  ago,  and  pulled 
the  bell,  and  said,  'I've  come  for  Sally';  and  tucked 
her  under  your  arm  and  walked  off  with  her.  This 
virtue  of  self-sacrifice  has  brought  forth  vice.  Those 
other  Smith  children —  Well,  never  mind  that !" 

"  I  think  it  has  made  the  others  selfish,"  Andrew 
agreed  ;  "  but  it  has  been  Sally's  conscience,"  he  add 
ed,  tenderly. 

"  Sally's  fiddlesticks  !"  Dr.  Lavendar  burst  out. 
"  Don't  talk  about  conscience.  Conscience  without 
reason  isn't  of  the  Lord !" 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  only  four  months  now,"  Andrew 
said.  "  Esther  comes  home  the  middle  of  June,  you 
know.  Mind  you're  ready,  Dr.  Lavendar  !  It's  to 
be  on  the  2oth." 

As  for  Dr.  Lavendar,  he  went  plodding  home, 
grumbling  and  frowning.  "It's  outrageous ;  it's  pre 
posterous  !  I'll  tell  Esther  what  I  think  of  it,  when 
I  see  her." 

But  the  telling  Esther  did  little  good.  Perhaps 
because  it  came  at  a  bad  moment.  .  .  . 

Esther  had  come  home  as  usual  at  the  end  of  the 
week  ;  and  on  Saturday  morning  she  and  Sally  went 
up  to  the  garret,  in  response  to  an  appeal  from 
Grace  for  some  clothing  to  give  away.  It  was  a 
dull  February  day  ;  the  garret  was  dark  and  chilly, 
and  smelled  of  camphor. 

"Good  gracious!"  Sally  said,  panting  .-and  laugh 
ing.  "These  stairs  do  make  you  out  of  breath  !" 

"You're  getting  fat,  my  dear,"  said  Esther,  stand 
ing  up,  slim  and  pretty,  with  an  amused  curl  on 
her  lip. 

296 


SALLY 

"  I  suppose  I  am,"  Sally  agreed,  ruefully  ;  "  and  I 
don't  know  why,  for  I'm  sure  I  am  always  running 
up  and  down  stairs,  and  that  ought  to  make  me 
thin." 

"  It's  a  good  conscience,"  Esther  declared,  "  and 
no  worry.  Now  I've  such  a  lot  to  worry  me — " 

But  for  once  Sally  did  not  press  for  information 
so  that  she  might  sympathize.  She  got  up,  and 
opened  a  drawer  in  a  tall  bureau,  and  folded  back  a 
sheet  of  silver  paper.  "  Why,  it's  your  wedding  dress, 
isn't  it !"  Esther  said,  looking  in.  "  Heavens  !  how 
old-fashioned,  Sally." 

"  I'm  going  to  alter  it  over,"  Sally  said,  touching 
it  with  loving  hands  ;  "  the  silk  is  just  as  good  as 
ever." 

"  You  can  never  get  into  it,"  Esther  told  her,  care 
lessly  ;  "  and  I'd  wear  gray,  Sally,  at  your  age.  Don't 
you  think  it's  more  suitable  ?"  Sally  looked  troubled 
— Esther  was  the  criterion  of  taste  in  the  Smith 
family. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I  like  this,  you 
know.  I  think  I'd  rather  alter  it,  even  if  it  isn't 
quite  so  nice.  I'm  going  to  work  on  it  next  week. 
You  know  it's  going  to  be  the  2oth  of  June,  Esther." 
She  stood  by  the  open  drawer  a  minute,  lifting  a  soft 
fold  of  the  unfinished  dress,  or  turning  over  a  sleeve, 
and  then  pressing  it  smoothly  back,  smiling  to  her 
self  and  thinking  how  the  days  were  narrowing  down 
on  the  calendar.  Esther  winced  at  the  sight.  Sally 
was  too  heavy  and  too  old  to  be  sentimental,  the  girl 
told  herself.  Her  taste  was  offended.  It  is  surpris 
ing  how  often  pure  goodness  does  offend  our  taste. 

"  Come  along,  Sally,"  she  said  ;  "  don't  be  spooney, 
my  dear.  Do  let's  get  through  this  clothes  business  ; 
*o  297 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

there  are  lots  of  things  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about. 
Gracious,  Sally,  how  do  you  manage  to  attend  to  this 
sort  of  thing  ?  I  wish  Grace  would  look  after  her 
own  charities  !  This  camphor  is  horrid.  It  makes 
me  nervous  even  to  think  about  fussing  with 
clothes." 

Sally  laughed,  and  shut  the  drawer,  and  went  to 
work  heartily.  "You'll  get  used  to  it,  my  dear," 
she  said  ;  "  but  you  needn't  do  it  now.  Sit  down 
there  and  talk  to  me."  So  Esther  sat  down,  and 
Sally  unfolded,  and  folded  again,  and  sprinkled  cam 
phor.  And  when  she  had  finished,  Esther  was  tired 
to  death,  she  said,  and  Sally  was  hot  and  dusty  and 
out  of  breath  ;  so  they  went  out  and  sat  on  the  gar 
ret  stairs  to  rest  and  cool  off.  There  was  a  window 
on  the  landing,  and  they  could  look  out  across  the 
brown  February  landscape  to  the  line  of  hills,  gray 
and  vague  in  the  mist. 

"Why,  there's  Andrew  over  in  the  nursery,"  Sally 
said,  screwing  up  her  near-sighted  eyes.  "  See  him, 
Esther  ?" 

"  Oh,  Sally,  for  pity's  sake  !  don't  do  that  way  with 
your  eyes  !  If  you  only  knew  how  it  looked.  Sally, 
I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  my  work.  I've  been 
talking  to  Mrs.  Tom  Gordon  (how  she  does  adore 
that  fat  husband  of  hers  !),  and  she  said  I  would  nev 
er  really  do  anything  if  I  only  studied  in  Mercer. 
So  I  —  the  fact  is,  I've  decided  to  go  abroad  for 
three  years." 

Sally  turned  and  looked  at  her,  open  -  mouthed. 
Then  Esther,  a  little  nervously,  but  with  a  wiry  de 
termination  in  her  face,  went  on  with  her  story  : 
"  I'm  sorry,  of  course,  if  it  interferes  with  any  of 
your  plans,  but  I've  just  got  to  go.  I  can't  live 

298 


SALLY 

unless  I  go  on  with  my  art.  You  can't  understand 
it,  because  you  haven't  the  artistic  temperament ; 
but  I  tell  you  I'd  simply  rather  die  than  live  the 
way  you  do  in  Old  Chester  ; — with  no  interests,  and 
accomplishing  nothing." 

Sally  heard  her  out  in  silence  ;  she  leaned  her 
cheek  on  her  dusty  hand  and  looked  over  at  An 
drew  pruning  some  bushes  in  the  plantation  ;  it 
had  begun  to  rain  in  a  fitful,  uncertain  way,  and 
she  shivered  a  little,  there  on  the  draughty  landing. 

"  Esther,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  think  you 
have  some  duties  to  mother,  and  the  boys,  and — " 

"  I  have  a  duty  to  myself,"  the  girl  broke  in,  pas 
sionately.  "  Sally,  my  art  is  my  life.  Nobody  has 
any  right  to  ask  me  to  give  it  up  just  to — to  pack 
coats  away  in  camphor.  I  can't  do  it.  No  ;  there's 
no  use  talking.  I  can't.  Why  did  you  send  me  to 
the  School  of  Design  at  all,  if  it  wasn't  to  fulfil— my 
genius?  Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"  I — don't  know,"  Sally  said,  dully. 

Of  course,  afterwards,  they  discussed  it  at  length  ; 
and  by-and-by  Sally  was  pushed  into  her  last  corner. 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can  afford  it,"  she  said,  with 
a  worn  look. 

"  Oh,  I  can  manage  the  money  part  of  it,"  Esther 
assured  her.  When  Sally  got  down  to  expense, 
Esther  saw  consent  ahead.  But,  indeed,  consent 
was  a  matter  of  form  ;  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
go,  with  or  without  it.  As  for  the  expense,  she  had 
settled  all  the  details  of  that  before  she  announced 
her  determination  ;  she  was  to  pay  her  way  by  cer 
tain  services  which  she  was  to  render  to  an  older 
and  richer  girl  with  whom  she  was  to  go.  "  I  sha'n't 

299 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

ask  you  to  help  me,"  she  told  her  sister,  with  all  the 
cruelty  of  youth.  After  all,  there  is  nothing  quite  so 
cruel  as  this  beautiful,  fleeting,  innocent  thing  called 
Youth. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Dr.  Lavendar  got  his 
chance  to  tell  Esther  what  he  thought  of  the  situa 
tion  :  he  met  her  the  afternoon  of  that  very  Satur 
day  when  she  had  broken  her  purpose  to  Sally. 
"  Esther,  my  child,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  have  a  word 
with  you." 

"  All  right,"  said  Esther,  carelessly  ;  which  made 
Dr.  Lavendar  look  at  her  sharply.  His  young  peo 
ple  did  not  use  that  tone  with  him.  But  Esther  used 
it ;  and  when  he  had  said  his  say,  she  answered  him 
in  the  same  careless  way,  but  briefly,  and  to  the  point. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  give  up  my  life  just  to 
let  Sally  get  married." 

Then  Dr.  Lavendar  tried  argument.  Esther  was 
plainly  bored,  but  she  listened  with  what  politeness 
she  could.  Only  when,  in  a  moment  of  irritation,  he 
said,  bluntly,  "  After  all,  now,  Esther,  what  good  is 
all  this  art  business  ?  I  don't  see  that  anything  but 
your  own  amusement  is  served  by  making  pictures. 
I  don't  see  that  the  world  is  any  better  for  your 
work  " — only  then  did  she  flash  out  at  him  :  "  Well, 
if  it  comes  to  that,  Dr.  Lavendar,  I  don't  see  that 
the  world  will  be  any  better  for  Sally's  getting  mar 
ried  !  She'll  have  a  lot  of  children,  and  there  are  too 
many  people  in  the  world  now — half  of '*em  can't  get 
a  living." 

Dr.  Lavendar  was  very  much  displeased,  and  a 
good  deal  shocked.  He  had  never  heard  a  young 
woman  allude  to  such  matters  ;  but  when  Esther 
added,  "  Anyhow,  I  can't  do  anything  about  it ;  I'm 

300 


SALLY 

going  abroad  to  study,"  then  he  was  angry.  "  Es 
ther,"  he  said,  "I  am  grieved  and  disappointed  in 
you  !  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  tell  you  so.  And  I  shall 
advise  Sally  and  your  mother  not  to  allow  it." 

"Allow  it  ?"  said  Esther,  opening  her  eyes.  "  Why, 
I'm  of  age,  Dr.  Lavendar  !"  and  then  she  said  good 
bye,  majestically. 

Dr.  Lavender  stood  looking  after  her,  shaking  his 
head,  too  distressed  for  Sally  to  laugh  at  the  child's 
airs.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  Sally,  God  bless  her  !  is  re 
sponsible  for  this.  It's  all  her  fault !"  He  told  Sal 
ly  so.  "  You've  got  a  monopoly  of  unselfishness,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  but  half 
sadly.  "  You  grow  in  grace  ;  but  it's  at  the  expense 
of  your  family  !" 

And  Sally,  who  looked  a  little  older  these  last  few 
days,  laughed  in  her  cheerful  way,  and  supposed  that 
this  pathetic  truth  was  a  joke. 

As  for  Andrew — "And  what  about  us?"  he  said, 
roughly.  And  then  he  cried  out,  with  passion,  "  My 
darling !" — a  word  so  unusual  that  Sally  blushed  to 
her  forehead,  and  hid  her  face  against  his  breast. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  relationship  between 
these  two  that,  in  all  the  pleadings  and  protests  of 
the  poor  deferred  lover,  Sally  never  made  the  offer  of 
convention  and  custom  to  release  him.  She  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing ;  and  Andrew  would  not 
have  understood  it  if  she  had.  There  are  certain 
ties  from  which  there  is  no  release  :  motherhood  is 
one  ;  marriage  is  sometimes  one  ;  and  that  particular 
sort  of  love  which,  rooted  in  human  passion,  yet  bears 
friendship  as  its  blossom,  is  another.  There  was  noth 
ing  for  Andrew  to  do,  Sally  thought,  but  wait.  And 
Andrew,  protesting,  waited. 

301 


OLD    CHESTER   TALES 


VI 

Afterwards,  when  Sally  looked  back  upon  it,  this 
period  of  waiting  seemed  to  be  happiness. 

The  boys  were  doing  well ;  Mrs.  Smith  seemed 
really  a  little  stronger  ;  and  there  was  an  absence  of 
jars  and  worries  and  heartaches,  which  really  consti 
tuted  happiness,  Sally  thought.  But  she  did  not 
know  it  until  a  real  and  terrible  unhappiness  knocked 
at  her  door,  and  showed  her  this  peaceful  truth. 

Robert.  He  was  the  unhappiness.  Sally  never 
quite  understood  it,  and  his  mother  never  believed 
it — but  it  was  something  about  money.  Robert  was 
so  "  misunderstood,"  he  said,  that  he  was  obliged  to 
leave  his  country.  It  was  that  or  jail.  So,  sudden 
ly,  secretly,  in  the  night,  he  disappeared. 

Carrie  came  and  told  them,  blazing  with  anger  at 
the  fugitive,  who  had  left  her  penniless.  "  I  suppose 
I've  got  to  go  to  work,"  she  said — "  me  !  after  being 
used  to  take  my  comfort.  For  my  folks  won't  do  a 
thing,  they're  so  mad  at  him.  Anyway,  they  can't ; 
they're  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey.  But  I'll  tell  you 
one  thing,  I  won't  carry  all  those  children  on  my 
back  ;  I'll  tell  you  that,  Mrs.  Smith  !  I'll  take  care 
of  baby,  but  I  can't  do  for  the  rest.  I — can't  /"  Then 
she  burst  out  crying.  "  I'll  work  and  support  baby 
and  I  ;  but  you'll  take  the  rest  of  'em,  won't  you 
Sally  ?"  she  said,  miserably. 

"  Yes,  Carrie,"  Sally  told  her,  briefly. 

She  could  not  speak.    She  could  only  go  to  Andrew. 

"  If  it  were  only  death,"  she  used  to  think  ;  "  if 
Robert  had  only  died,  and  these  children  had  come 
to  us  !" 

302 


SALLY 

But  Robert  did  not  die  ;  on  the  contrary,  a  winter 
in  Italy  greatly  improved  his  health.  He  wrote  regu 
larly  to  his  sister,  acknowledging  her  remittances, 
and  blessing  her  for  her  goodness  to  his  children. 
He  apparently  forgot  his  wrong-doing,  though  once 
or  twice,  in  his  letters,  he  referred  in  a  good-humored 
way  to  his  "  mistake,"  which,  he  said,  "  no  one  re 
gretted  more  than  he."  "  He  has  repented,"  Mrs. 
Smith  used  to  say,  angrily,  to  Sally ;  "  I  don't  know 
what  more  you  want !  You're  so  hard  on  him." 
Sally  used  to  answer  Robert's  letters,  sadly  and  pa 
tiently,  and  with  no  reproaches  ; — that  was  Sally's 
way.  And  she  devoted  herself  to  his  children.  These 
three  little  people,  so  tragically  bereaved,  meant  un 
ceasing  care  and  love.  Mrs.  Smith,  too,  became  more 
helpless  than  ever.  Mrs.  Steele,  whose  antagonism 
for  the  poor  foolish  lady  had  become  a  fixed  idea, 
was  herself  an  invalid  now,  and  very  dependent  upon 
Andrew,  who  became  almost  as  good  a  nurse  in  those 
days  as  Sally.  So,  with  these  claims  upon  them,  the 
middle-aged  lovers  could  only  wait — they  called  it 
waiting ;  but  nobody  ever  thought  of  their  marry 
ing.  They  were  permanently  lovers. 

To  be  sure,  they  said  to  each  other,  that  when 
Esther  came  home —  But  just  after  Robert's  down 
fall  Esther  married  a  stout,  stupid,  good-hearted 
Englishman,  as  poor  as  a  mouse,  and  unable  to  look 
at  a  picture  without  growing  sleepy.  She  put  down 
her  brushes  on  the  birth  of  her  first  child,  and  she 
wrote  Sally,  in  the  fulness  and  happiness  of  her 
heart,  that  "  home  was  woman's  sphere."  And  Old 
Chester  said  she  was  quite  right. 

Robert's  children  had  been  with  their  grandmother 
three  years,  when  Dr.  Lavendar  made  up  his  mind 

303 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

that  this  had  lasted  long  enough,  and  rose  in  his 
wrath.  That  was  how  it  came  about  that  he  made 
his  journey  out  into  the  world. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Dr.  Lavendar  had  vent 
ured  farther  than  Mercer ;  and  he  made  as  many 
and  as  solemn  preparations  as  though  he  were  going 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  He  "  put  his  house  in  or 
der,"  he  said  ;  he  burned  some  old  letters  ;  he  added 
a  codicil  to  his  will ;  and  he  arranged  for  his  grizzled 
little  dog,  Danny.  Then  he  fared  forth  into  the 
world. 

He  did  not  tell  any  one  in  Old  Chester  his  object, 
so  no  one  had  apprised  "  Sister  Mary  Eunice"  that 
she  was  to  see  him.  She  had  been  told  that  a  cler 
gyman  wished  to  see  her  in  the  parlor  of  the  hos 
pital,  and  she  came  down-stairs  with  her  soft,  swift, 
sliding  step,  her  brown  robes  clinging  about  her  feet, 
and  her  ebony  and  silver  cross  dangling  from  her 
waist.  Her  face  was  the  pure,  austere,  devout  face 
of  the  little  girl  who  used  to  kneel  at  Dr.  Lavendar's 
communion-rail,  and  come  to  every  possible  service, 
and  wish  there  were  three  times  as  many  more. 

"  Why,  Grace  !"  he  said,  getting  up  to  greet  her, 
and  holding  out  his  hands,  but  staring  at  her  through 
his  spectacles  with  astonished  eyes. 

"  Dear  Father  Lavendar  !"  she  murmured. 

Dr.  Lavendar  sat  down,  with  a  distinct  sense  of 
shock.  Sister  Mary  Eunice  sat  down  too,  with  her 
eyes  dropped,  and  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  She 
told  him  how  glad  she  was  to  see  him,  and  how  much 
she  wanted  to  hear  all  about  dear  Old  Chester,  and 
her  mother,  and  Sally,  and  the  boys.  "  You've  just 
seen  them  ;  it's  good  to  see  any  one  who  has  really 
seen  them."  She  raised  her  eyes  with  a  swift  look, 

304 


SALLY 

and  dropped  them  again.  "  I  get  letters,  of  course, 
but  it  isn't  like  seeing  them." 

"  No,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  "  it  isn't,  Gracie,  my 
dear.  Well,  your  mother's  fairly  well.  I  saw  her 
on  Monday.  Sally,  bless  her  heart,  is  just  the  same 
dear,  good  girl.  And  John  and  David  are  nice  boys. 
When  are  you  coming  home,  Grace  ?" 

She  was  to  have  two  weeks'  vacation  in  the  sum 
mer,  she  told  him,  with  that  flashing  glance  followed 
by  a  downward  look,  which  she  had  lately  acquired, 
but  she  thought  perhaps  she  would  go  into  retreat 
for  that  fortnight. 

"  Grace,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  twitching  his  eye 
brows  at  her,  "when  is  Sally  going  to  get  mar 
ried  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  answered,  a  little 
startled. 

Then  he  made  his  appeal.  He  was  very  much 
moved  as  he  told  her  the  story  of  Sally  and  Andrew, 
and  the  long,  patient,  lasting  love. 

"  They've  waited  all  these  years.  Grace,  isn't  your 
duty  plain  ?" 

It  was  so  far  from  plain  that  he  had  to  put  it  into 
bolder  words  : 

"  Give  up  this  artificial  life,  my  child  ;  come  back 
and  do  your  duty  in  that  station  of  life  where  it 
pleased  God  to  call  you.  Give  Sally  her  chance." 

It  was  so  astonishing,  so  preposterous  to  his  hearer 
that  there  was  an  instant  when  she  almost  laughed. 
Leave  the  hospital  ?  Leave  her  sick,  and  poor,  and 
sinning  folk  ?  Leave  her  vocation,  and  go  back  to 
darn  Robert's  children's  stockings,  and  let  Sally  get 
married  ?  It  struck  her  as  absolutely  ludicrous. 

"Why!"  she  protested.  "But,  Dr.  Lavendar, 
305 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

you  don't  realize — just  think  of  the  work  to  be  done 
here — " 

"There's  a -plenty  of  work  in  Old  Chester.  My 
girl,  listen  to  me  :  you  think  this  work  serves  God  ; 
and  so  it  does.  But  there  is  no  better  service  of  God 
than  the  simple  doing  of  the  duty  He  gives  you  in 
your  family  life.  Gracie,  don't  try  so  hard  to  save 
your  soul ;  he  that  would  save  his  life  shall  lose  it. 
Do  you  remember  who  said  that  ?  Come  home  and 
do  your  duty.  You  can  wear  these  things  in  Old 
Chester,  if  you  want  to,"  he  added,  with  eager  sim 
plicity. 

At  that  a  spark  came  into  the  eye  of  Sister  Mary 
Eunice  which  was  just  a  little  of  this  world.  How 
ever,  she  restrained  any  sharp  expression  of  opinion  ; 
she  explained  to  him,  in  gentle  detail,  how  impos 
sible  it  was  for  her  to  think  of  what  he  proposed  ; 
indeed,  she  was  very  gentle  with  poor,  stupid,  Protes 
tant  Dr.  Lavendar,  who  sat  frowning  at  the  crucifix 
on  the  whitewashed  wall  opposite  him,  and  rapping 
the  bare  floor  now  and  then  with  his  impatient  um 
brella. 

When  he  went  away  she  had  only  tender  feelings 
for  him,  for,  after  all,  she  had  received  her  first  spir 
itual  instruction  (such  as  it  was)  from  the  simple  old 
man  ;  even  his  sharp  words  did  not  make  her  angry  : 

"  Go  and  seek  for  light,  Grace ;  read  your  Bible 
and  get  over  this  gimcrackery.  Don't  think  so  much 
about  petticoats,  but  follow  your  Saviour,  who  went 
down  to  Nazareth  with  his  father  and  mother,  and 
was  subject  unto  them  until  he  was  thirty  years  old. 
Good-bye  !  I'm  disappointed  in  you.  What  have  I 
been  teaching  all  these  years  to  produce  a  child 
like  this  ?" 

306 


SALLY 

He  went  away  angry,  and  grieved,  and  wonder 
ing  ;  but  most  of  all  determined :  Sally  and  Andrew 
should  be  married, — somehow!  — if  he  had  to  use 
force  to  get  'em  to  stand  up  and  listen  to  the  mar 
riage  service  !  Coming  down  from  Mercer,  he  sat 
on  the  box-seat  with  the  stage-driver,  and  Jonas  said, 
afterwards,  that  he  "hardly  opened  his  head  for  the 
whole  twenty-one  miles."  He  stabbed  at  the  foot 
board  with  his  umbrella,  and  frowned,  and  thrust 
out  his  lower  lip,  and  looked,  Jonas  said,  as  cross  as 
two  sticks. 

"  It's  got  to  stop,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It's  wick 
ed,  and  I'll  tell  'em  so  !"  Then  he  pounded  so  hard 
with  his  umbrella  that  the  off  horse  twitched  his  ears 
nervously,  and  Jonas  looked  round  at  him  open- 
mouthed. 

He  made  plan  after  plan  ;  but  each  one  was  dis 
carded  because  he  saw  it  would  encounter  invincible 
selfishness,  or  invincible  self-sacrifice,  "and  I  don't 
know  which  is  worse  !"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  snort 
ing.  As  they  passed  through  Upper  Chester,  in  the 
pleasant  afternoon  light,  he  was  deeply  discouraged. 
"  I  can't  see  any  way  out  of  it,"  he  thought ;  "  that 
boy  Andrew  can't  leave  his  mother — I  admit  that ; 
and  he  hasn't  money  enough  to  hire  somebody  to 
look  after  her  ;  I  admit  that.  He  ought  to  take  her, 
body  and  bones,  and  make  her  go  and  live  with  the 
Smiths — but  how  they  would  quarrel — those  two 
women  !  Then  there's  Sally's  side.  Mrs.  Smith  would 
threaten  to  die  if  Sally  left  her,  and  Sally  hasn't  the 
courage,  poor  girl,  to  say  'Very  well,  ma'am';  and 
go, — and  discover  that  her  mother  would  live  to  be 
as  old  as  Methuselah  !  The  only  thing  I  can  do  is 
to  make  an  appeal  to  Mrs.  Steele,  though  it  will  do 

307 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

about  as  much  good  as  talking  to  a  stone  !  Andrew 
has  spoiled  her.  Well,  well ;  children  are  responsi 
ble  for  their  parents  to  the  Lord  ;  but  I  suppose 
that  never  struck  St.  Paul/  The  long  shadows 
stretched  across  the  new-mown  fields  where  the  hay 
cocks  had  been  piled  up  for  the  night ;  the  air  was 
sweet,  and  there  were  bird-calls  all  about  them  ;  the 
setting  sun  struck  suddenly  on  the  windows  of  Mrs. 
Steele's  little  house,  and  Dr.  Lavendar  frowned 
again,  and  said  to  himself :  "  Well ;  I'll  give  that 
woman  a  piece  of  my  mind ;  I  wish  I'd  done  it  ten 
years  ago  !  It's  probably  too  late  now,  but  it  will 
be  a  relief  to  me,  anyhow." 

It  was  too  late.  When  Van  Horn  came  out  to 
help  the  old  cleryman  down  from  his  perch  on  the 
box-seat  as  the  stage  drew  up  at  the  tavern  door, 
there  was  an  important  look  on  his  face.  "Glad 
you're  back,  sir,"  he  said.  "Well,  things  has  hap 
pened  since  you  went  away.  Mrs.  Steele  passed 
away,  sir,  last  night." 

Dr.  Lavendar,  clambering  stiffly  down  over  the 
wheel,  paused  midway  ;  then  he  stood  staring  at 
the  landlord ;  then  sat  down  on  one  of  the  big 
splint  chairs  on  the  porch.  "The  sword  of  the 
Lord,  and  of  Gideon  !"  he  said. 

Van  Home  sighed  respectfully  at  this  religious 
exclamation,  and  said  :  "  Yes,  indeed,  sir  ;  we  all  go. 
It  was  a  fit." 

As  for  Dr.  Lavendar,  he  went  home  and  told  his 
Mary  to  give  him  his  supper  as  quickly  as  pos 
sible. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  Upper  Chester,"  he  said ; 
"  Mrs.  Steele  is  dead." 

Mary  protested  shrilly.    "  You'll  wear  yourself  out 

308 


SALLY 

— you  just  home  from  a  journey  !    She's  gone  ;  there 
isn't  nothing  you  can  do — " 

"Isn't  there?"  said  Dr.  Lavendar,  chuckling. 
"  Give  me  my  supper  !" 

So  he  went,  jogging  along  in  the  summer  dusk  in 
his  old  sulky.  The  house  was  dark  and  silent  when 
he  reached  it  at  ten  o'clock  ;  but  as  he  came  up  the 
garden-path  he  heard  low  voices  on  the  porch,  and 
then  Andrew  rose  in  the  shadows  under  the  Vir 
ginia-creeper  that  hung  thick  about  the  pillars  and 
over  the  lintel,  and  came  and  met  him.  "This  is 
very  kind  of  you,  Dr.  Lavendar,"  he  said,  in  that 
subdued  way  which  means  the  house  of  death. 
"  Sally's  here,"  he  added. 

"  I  supposed  so,"  the  old  man  said,  and  took  Sally's 
hand  in  silence. 

"  It  was  very  sudden,"  Andrew  said  ;  and  then 
they  all  sat  down,  and  Andrew  told  the  story.  "  It 
was  very  sudden,"  he  said  again,  sighing,  when  he 
had  given  the  last  detail. 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar  ;  "yes." 

Then  they  were  silent. 

"  She  is  better  off,  Andrew,"  Sally  said,  gently. 
"  It  is  a  blessed  thing  for  her — isn't  it,  Dr.  Laven 
dar  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  yes,"  Andrew  said.  And  Dr.  Lavendar 
nodded. 

"Well,  Sally,"  he  said;  "well,  Andrew—"  Then 
he  paused.  "  My  dear  friends,  I  have  come  here  to 
night  not  only  to  comfort  a  house  of  mourning,  but 
to  say  to  you,  as  your  friend  and  minister,  that  I 
hope  you  will  let  me  marry  you  at  once." 

"Oh — Dr.  Lavendar,"  Sally  said,  shrinking — "we 
must  not  speak  of  that  now." 

309 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Sarah,  there  is  no  impropriety  in  speaking  of  the 
enduring  affection  which  has  existed  between  you 
and  Andrew.  In  this  house,  where  death  has  come, 
I  say  to  you,  let  there  be  no  more  of  this  misguided 
delay — a  delay  that  has  wrought  harm,  Sarah." 

Andrew  suddenly  stood  up  and  put  his  hand  out 
to  his  old  friend,  "God  bless  you,  sir  !"  he  said. 

"  The  funeral  is  to  be  to-morrow,"  said  Dr.  Laven- 
dar ;  "  very  well.  On  Monday  morning,  Sarah,  at 
nine  o'clock,  I  will  call  at  your  house  and  perform 
the  marriage  ceremony." 

"Oh,  Andrew—"  Sally  said,  faintly. 

As  for  Andrew,  he  burst  out  passionately  :  "  All 
these  years — all  these  years!  Oh,  Sally,  how  long 
it  has  been  !  Sally,  not  another  day's  delay ;  I  will 
come  and  live  at  your  house,  dear ;  but  not  another 
day's  delay." 

When  Dr.  Lavendar  went  home  that  night,  his  old 
face  was  twinkling  with  pleasure  ;  he  sang  softly 
scraps  of  hymns,  or  talked  to  his  little  blind  horse  ; 
and  once  he  said  to  himself,  chuckling,  "  If  I'd  fol 
lowed  my  impulse,  I'd  have  married  them  then  and 
there,  and  made  no  bones  of  it !" 

However,  when  people  have  waited  so  many  years, 
Monday  is  not  very  far  off. 


THE  UNEXPECTEDNESS  OF  MR.   HORACE 
SHIELDS 


\ 


THE  UNEXPECTEDNESS  OF  MR.   HORACE 
SHIELDS 


I 

DR.  WILLIAM  KING  had  married  his  wife  because 
of  her  excellent  common-sense. 

It  was  an  evidence  of  his  own  common-sense,  that 
he  was  not  moved  by  mere  prettiness,  or  sweetness, 
or  whatever.  Mrs.  William  was,  as  it  chanced,  good- 
looking  ;  but  Willy  said  that  was  the  last  thing  he 
had  thought  of ;  he  said  she  was  a  sensible  woman, 
with  no  whims.  She  would  keep  his  house  ;  and  his 
ledger,  for  that  matter ;  and  bring  up  his  children  ; 
and  see  that  his  buttons  were  sewed  on  —  and  not 
bother  him.  Willy  had  seen  bothering  wives.  His 
profession  brought  him  in  constant  contact  with 
them  —  nervous,  sentimental,  hysterical,  nagging, 
egotistical  wives.  The  doctor  used  to  say  he  won 
dered  how  men  had  the  courage  to  get  married  at 
all,  considering  ;  and  he  was  convinced  that  this 
state  of  things  was  the  result  of  marrying  for  senti 
ment  ;  he  had  married  for  sense. 

"  Sentiment,"  said  Dr.  King,  u  is  a  phase  of  youth 
and  growth  ;  we've  got  to  go  through  with  it ;  but 
to  make  a  phase  permanent  is  the  act  of  a  fool." 

"Well,    now,   William,"   objected    Dr.    Lavendar, 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"look  at  Oscar.  You  can't  say  it's  a  phase  of 
youth  ?" 

"Oh,  Oscar  caught  it  late,"  the  doctor  said.  "I 
have  had  a  case  of  measles  where  the  patient  was 
sixty-two.  As  for  Dorothea,  she's  young  enough  to 
be  foolish  ;  Martha  says  she  looks  under  the  bed 
every  night  for  a  man  !  She  says  she  doesn't  even 
buy  her  own  clothes.  Imagine  me  deciding  on 
Martha's  shoestrings  !  Well,  Martha  wouldn't  have 
it.  Nobody  would  resent  that  sort  of  thing  more 
than  Martha,"  said  Willy,  complacently. 

Martha  managed  her  own  shoestrings  in  those 
first  days  ;  and  by-and-by,  such  was  her  common- 
sense,  she  managed  the  doctor's  also.  Though  Willy 
did  not  talk  so  much  about  it  when  that  time  came. 

Still,  he  must  have  appreciated  the  way  in  which 
she  expended  his  small  income  ;  for  she  fed  and 
clothed  her  plump,  blond  William  as  though  he  had 
twice  as  much  to  live  on.  When  Mrs.  King  made  an 
unusually  good  bargain  with  the  meat-man,  or  hag 
gled  with  Mr.  Horace  Shields  until  he  sold  her  a 
bottle  of  ink  for  two  cents  less  than  the  general  pub 
lic  paid,  she  used  to  say,  exultingly,  that  it  was  well 
for  Willy,  considering  that  he  would  not  send  bills  to 
half  of  his  patients,  that  he  had  a  wife  who  would 
look  after  things. 

"  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of  you, 
Willy,  if  you'd  married  a  different  kind  of  woman," 
Martha  would  say,  good  -  naturedly.  "  You  would 
have  been  in  the  poorhouse  by  this  time !" 

Although  she  did  not  know  it,  the  good  Martha 
really  opened  up  a  very  interesting  question  which 
most  women  would  do  well  to  ask  themselves  in  re 
gard  to  their  husbands  :  What  would  my  Tom,  or 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

Dick,  or  Harry,  have  been  without  me  ?  Not  so  si 
lent,  if  he  had  chosen  a  girl  who  did  not  gush  ;  not 
so  selfish,  if  he  had  had  a  wife  less  addicted  to  unself 
ishness  ;  not  so  ill-tempered,  if  he  had  married  some 
one  less  anxious  and  nagging.  The  fact  is,  these 
simple  men  creatures  are  as  wax  in  our  hands  ;  our 
tempers  and  our  tongues  decide  their  eternal  salva 
tion — though  they  never  know  it.  They  all  mean 
pretty  well  in  the  beginning,  but  they  fall  into  the 
hands  of  their  wives,  and  look  at  the  result ! 

But  Martha  King  had  no  time  to  waste  in  such 
speculations.  She  was  secretary  of  the  Woman's 
Auxiliary  ;  and  it  was  known  in  Old  Chester  that 
she  had  once  sent  a  letter  to  the  Spirit  of  Missions 
calling  attention  to  the  mistakes  of  this  admirable 
organization.  She  had  a  Sunday-school  class  ;  and 
she  did  all  the  cutting  out  for  the  Sewing  Society. 
She  was  an  indefatigable  parish  worker  ;  "  invaluable 
in  practical  matters,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  heartily. 
What  he  said  when  she  took  it  upon  herself  to  tell 
him  that  he  had  done  wrong  not  to  give  Anna  King 
back  to  her  own  mother  nobody  knew  except  Martha, 
and  she  never  told  ;  but  her  face  got  red  when  the 
matter  was  referred  to  at  Sewing  Society.  Still,  I 
remember  in  this  connection  that  when  Mr.  Jim 
Shields  expressed  his  opinion  of  Mrs.  King  to  Dr. 
Lavendar,  the  old  minister  smoothed  him  down,  and 
bade  him  remember  that  Martha  had  a  good  heart. 
"Good,  but  not  graceful,"  Mr.  Jim  growled.  And 
Dr.  Lavendar  chuckled. 

Added  to  her  moral  excellences,  Mrs.  King  was  a 
remarkable  house-keeper ;  her  economies  were  the 
admiration  of  Old  Chester  ; — economical  house-keep 
ing  was  not  an  Old  Chester  characteristic  ;  we  were 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

too  near  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  for  that.  She  was 
orderly  to  a  mathematical  degree,  and  so  immacu 
lately  neat  that  she  had  been  known  to  say  that  if 
she  should  see  a  particle  of  dust  behind  a  picture- 
frame  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  she  would  rise  from 
her  bed  and  remove  it !  The  reply  made  to  this  dec 
laration  was  :  "  If  you  could  see  a  particle  of  dust 
behind  a  picture-frame  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night, 
you  had  better  rise;  —  and  consult  an  oculist  at 
once."  t 

Any  woman  will  know  that  the  doctor  said  this  :  it 
is  the  reply  of  a  husband. 

But,  really  and  truly,  Mrs.  King  was  a  capable, 
conscientious,  sensible  woman  ;  and  Old  Chester  was 
not  unreasonable  in  expecting  the  same  characteris 
tics  in  her  younger  sister,  Lucy  ;  but  their  only  re 
semblance  was  that  they  neither  of  them  had  the 
slightest  sense  of  humor.  In  every  other  way  they 
could  not  have  been  more  radically  different  if  they 
had  been  relations  by  marriage. 

Perhaps  this  was  because  they  were  almost  stran 
gers,  Lucy  having  lived  in  the  East  with  her  father 
ever  since  she  was  ten  years  old.  He  came  back, 
poor  old  man,  at  the  last,  to  die  in  Mercer.  And  a 
month  afterwards  Old  Chester  was  told  briefly  that 
Mrs.  King's  sister,  Lucy,  was  coming  to  live  with 
her. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  it,"  Mrs.  King  said.  "  Willy's 
sister  didn't  come  to  live  with  him  when  poor  old  Mrs. 
King  died  ;  and  I  don't  know  why  my  sister  should 
live  with  me.  But  Willy  will  have  it.  I  only  hope, 
for  her  own  self-respect,  Lucy  will  find  something  to 
do,  so  that  she  won't  be  a  burden  on  him.  I  shall 
tell  her  so,  flatly  and  frankly.  I  consider  it  my  duty." 

316 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

So  Lucy  came,  with  "  Dick,"  her  canary-bird,  and 
her  little  caba  full  of  worsted-work.  She  was  only 
twenty-three,  the  idol  of  the  old  father,  whose  re 
lation  to  her  had  been  maternal  and  loverlike  and 
brotherly,  all  at  once.  One  does  not  just  see  why, 
for  though  she  was  a  good  girl,  she  was  not  especial 
ly  attractive ;  very  shy,  not  pretty  exactly,  though 
she  had  soft  deer's  eyes ;  certainly  not  sensible ; 
crushed,  poor  child,  when  she  came  to  live  with  the 
Kings,  by  her  father's  loss. 

Willy  looked  at  her  once  or  twice  the  first  day  at 
breakfast,  and  wondered  how  two  sisters  could  be  so 
different. 

"  No,  I  don't  like  sewing,"  she  said,  listlessly.  u  No, 
I  don't  care  for  books."  And  then,  later:  "No,  I 
don't  know  anything  about  cooking.  I  don't  like 
house  -  keeping.  But  I  like  worsted  -  work  pretty 
well." 

"  I  think,"  said  Martha,  decidedly,  "  that  father  did 
very  wrong  not  to  let  you  learn  to  do  something  use 
ful.  Worsted-work  is  nothing  but  a  waste  of  time. 
I  think  he — " 

"  Don't !"  the  other  cried  out.  "  Don't  speak  to 
me  about  my  father  1" 

"  Well,  he  was  my  father  too,"  Mrs.  King  remon 
strated.  "  One  speaks  the  truth  of  people,  Lucy, 
whether  they  are  relations  or  not.  Because  he  was 
my  father  doesn't  make  him  perfect,"  said  Martha, 
gravely. 

But  Lucy  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  room,  trem 
bling  as  she  walked. 

"You  hurt  her  feelings,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  But,  my  dear,  it's  true.  She  ought  to  have  been 
taught  things  ;  but  father  spoiled  her  from  the  time 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

she  was  born.  She  was  the  youngest,  you  know  ;  and 
he  just  lay  down  and  let  her  walk  over  him.  Which 
was  wrong  ;  you  can't  deny  that  ?" 

"  I  want  my  dinner  at  1.30,"  said  Willy  King. 
"  I've  got  to  see  Mr.  Jim  Shields  again,  and  I  want 
to  go  before  dinner." 

"You  went  before  breakfast,"  said  Mrs.  King. 
"  There's  nothing  you  can  do  ;  and  as  you  make  no 
charge,  it  seems  rather  foolish — " 

"  Do  you  think  your  sister  would  like  to  go  round 
with  me  in  the  sleigh  this  morning?"  the  doctor 
said,  stopping,  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob,  and 
looking  back  into  the  dining-room.  "  It  isn't  cold, 
and  the  sleighing  is  good." 

But  Lucy,  when  her  sister  took  the  message  up  to 
her,  only  said,  listlessly,  "  I  don't  mind." 

"  It  will  do  you  good,"  her  brother-in-law  called 
up-stairs  ;  "  come  along  !" 

And  Martha  added,  kindly,  "  Here's  a  cushion, 
Lucy,  to  put  behind  you." 

"  I  don't  need  it,  thank  you,  sister  Martha,"  Lucy 
said. 

"  Oh,  you  will  be  much  more  comfortable,"  Mrs. 
King  said,  decidedly  ;  and  pushed  the  pillow  behind 
her  little  sister,  and  tucked  the  robe  firmly  around 
her  feet ;  and  then  they  started — the  quiet,  apathetic, 
unhappy  child  (who  had  removed  the  cushion  as 
soon  as  she  was  out  of  her  sister's  sight),  leaning 
back  in  the  sleigh  behind  the  doctor's  big  shoulder, 
and  looking  off  over  the  snow  shining  under  a  soft 
blue  sky,  but  saying  nothing.  Once  she  uttered  a 
little  cry  when  the  runner  on  the  doctor's  side  went 
up  on  a  drift  and  the  sleigh  heeled  like  a  boat ;  and 
once  she  caught  his  arm,  because  the  horse  danced 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

at  the  sound  of  the  butcher's  horn  tooting  at  a  cus 
tomer's  door. 

"Scared?"  said  Willy,  looking  at  her  kindly. 
"  You  mustn't  mind  Jinny  ;  she  is  a  lamb.  She  only 
prances  to  show  she  feels  happy." 

"  I'm  so  afraid  of  horses,"  Lucy  answered,  breath 
lessly. 

After  that  her  brother-in-law  made  Jinny  walk 
down  all  the  hills  ;  then  he  told  her  which  of  his  pa 
tients  he  was  going  to  visit,  and  once  or  twice  add 
ed  interesting  details  of  their  diseases,  which  made 
Lucy  turn  away  her  head  and  wince,  and  say,  under 
her  breath,  "  Oh  please,  brother  William  !  I  can't 
bear  to  hear  those  things." 

And  the  doctor  whistled,  and  said  to  himself, 
"  Sisters  !" 

That  day  the  longest  call  was  upon  Mr.  Jim 
Shields  ;  it  was  so  long  that  Willy  came  running  out 
of  the  house  after  a  while,  bareheaded,  and  bade  his 
little  sister-in-law  get  out  of  the  sleigh  and  go  into 
the  shop  in  the  basement  to  wait  for  him. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind,  Lucy,"  he  said  ;  "  I  just 
meant  to  look  in  on  him  ;  but  he  is  having  a  dread 
ful — "  Lucy  drew  up  one  shoulder  and  bit  her  lip. 
"  He  doesn't  feel  very  well ;  so  I  must  wait  awhile. 
You  go  right  into  the  shop  ;  there's  nobody  there ; 
Mr.  Horace  is  up-stairs  with  his  brother." 
c  He  helped  her  out,  and  hurried  back  into  the 
house,  where,  in  his  anxiety  and  pity,  he  forgot 
Lucy,  sitting  alone  in  the  little  shop  down-stairs. 

There  was  a  fire  in  the  triangular  grate  in  the  cor 
ner,  and  the  sunshine  came  in  through  the  window 
in  the  door,  behind  which  a  little  bell  had  tinkled  as 
they  entered.  "  Books,  Etc.  H.  Shields,"  was  the 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

sign  outside  ;  but,  to  be  exact,  Mr.  Horace's  shop 
was  mostly  "  Etc."  Lucy,  looking  about,  saw  that 
the  slates  on  the  third  shelf  were  not  in  an  orderly 
pile  ;  she  glanced  nervously  around,  and  then  slipped 
behind  the  counter  and  straightened  them ;  then 
she  dusted  the  books  in  the  small  show-case  with 
her  handkerchief,  and  blew  the  powdered  chalk 
from  the  shelf  where  the  blackboard  materials  were 
kept.  Just  then  the  bell  struck  out  a  jangling  note, 
and  the  door  opened  ;  a  boy  wanted  two  envelopes. 
Lucy  looked  at  him  in  consternation  ;  but  when  the 
child  pointed  to  the  green  pasteboard  box  where  the 
stationery  was  kept,  and  even  opened  the  till  for  her 
so  that  she  might  change  his  dime,  she  found  herself 
quite  at  ease  ;  she  even  hoped  some  more  custom 
ers  would  come,  it  was  so  interesting  to  sell  things. 
But  no  one  came,  and  Lucy  watched  the  square  of 
sunshine  move  across  the  floor,  and  heard  a  cinder 
drop  sometimes  from  the  grate,  or  a  spurt  of  flame 
bubble  out  between  the  bars.  It  was  an  hour  before 
her  brother-in-law  thought  of  her,  and  came,  with 
many  apologies,  to  take  her  home. 

He  had  quite  forgotten  Lucy.  Like  everybody 
else  in  Old  Chester,  the  doctor's  mind  was  full  of 
the  Twins  —  Old  Chester  always  referred  to  the 
Shields  brothers  in  this  way.  Being  twins,  the  two 
old  gentlemen  were,  for  all  practical  purposes,  the 
same  age ;  but,  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  the 
younger  had  been  "  Old  Mr.  Horace  "  to  his  neigh 
bors,  while  the  first-born  was  Jim  Shields  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter — and  a  brave  end  it  was  too  !  In  his 
early  manhood  he  had  been  a  high-hearted,  irrespon 
sible,  generous  young  fool ;  a  bit  of  a  bully,  very 
likely,  in  the  way  of  overriding  other  people's  views, 

320 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

and  insisting  upon  his  own  with  a  joyous  dogmatism 
that  never  irritated.  And  in  middle  life,  when  what 
he  called  his  "cussed  body"  got  the  better  of  him 
and  pinned  him  down  into  a  wheeled  chair,  he  was 
still  generous,  and  courageous,  and  merry  ;  and  he 
bullied  his  brother  and  his  doctor  and  Old  Chester, 
and  indeed  Death  himself  —  bullied  him,  jeered  at 
him,  swore  at  him,  and  lived  through  nearly  thirty 
years  of  dying  without  a  wince. 

James  had  fallen  ill  when  he  was  thirty-five.  He 
was  sailing  around  the  world  as  supercargo  for  a 
large  East  India  trading-house  ;  when,  suddenly,  he 
came  home.  He  had  "  had  notice,"  he  said,  briefly. 
"An  old  sawbones  in  London  explained  it  to  me," 
he  said,  "  told  me  I  mustn't  try  to  keep  going  any 
longer.  Fact  is,  I've  got  to  rust;  —  or  bust,"  he 
ended,  cheerfully. 

It  was  a  year  before  Old  Chester  knew  that  that 
"rusting"  meant  an  invalid's  chair,  and  slow,  re 
lentless,  invincible  dying  ;  but  James  and  Horace 
knew  it,  and  they  looked  into  the  enemy's  eyes  to 
gether.  Horace  was  a  little  man,  with  a  rosy  face ; 
he  was  resolute,  but  it  was  in  his  own  fashion  ;  he 
had  his  quiet  way  of  carrying  out  plans  for  Jim's 
comfort,  no  matter  how  his  twin  roared  at  him,  and 
swore  he  would  or  he  wouldn't ;  but  he  never  had 
his  brother's  vigor  in  expressing  himself.  Indeed, 
once  only,  when,  trembling  with  alarm,  he  called 
Willy  King  a  fool,  was  he  known  to  have  spoken 
forcibly. 

The  two  brothers  lived  in  a  brick  house  on  Main 
Street ;  two  flights  of  stone  steps,  their  hand-rails 
ending  in  brass  knobs,  curved  up  to  its  front  door, 
which  had  a  fan-light  and  a  big  iron  knocker.  Be- 

321 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

hind  this  door  was  the  hall,  the  walls  covered  with 
varnished  paper  which  represented  blocks  of  veined 
and  mottled  yellow  marble ;  the  staircase  wound 
round  this  hall,  and  under  it  were  two  steel  engrav 
ings — "  The  Maid  of  Saragossa  "  and  "  Bolton  Ab 
bey  " — both  brown  and  stained  with  mildew.  The 
parlor  was  on  the  left  as  one  entered  ;  it  was  a  big, 
bare  room,  with  a  high  ceiling ;  there  were  green 
Venetian  blinds  in  the  windows,  and  a  pale  paper  on 
the  walls — landscapes  in  light  brown,  of  castles  and 
lakes  ;  on  the  wooden  mantel,  like  flat  trees  laden 
with  prisms,  were  three  candelabra,  each  with  its 
ormolu  milkmaid  simpering  under  the  boughs  ;  and 
there  were  some  shells,  and  a  carved  teakwood  junk, 
and  a  whale's  tooth — relics  of  Mr.  Jim's  adventurous 
days.  Here,  all  day  long,  Jim  Shields  sat  and  watch 
ed  life  slip  between  his  helpless  fingers.  Death  seem 
ed  to  play  with  him  as  a  child  plays  with  a  fly — pull 
ing  off  a  wing,  or  a  leg,  or  another  wing,  and  the 
head  last. 

But  nothing  goes  on  forever.     James  had  been 
dying  for  nearly  thirty  years,  and  one  day  he  died. 

"  But,"  Horace  had  gasped  when,  that  sunny  De 
cember  morning,  while  little  Lucy  was  waiting  in 
the  shop,  Willy  King  told  him  how  it  was  going  to 
.  be — "  but  it's  so  sudden  !"  And  then  he  remembered 
that,  after  all,  Willy  was  but  a  boy.  What  did  he 
know  about  James?  James  was  taken  sick  when 
Willy  was  fifteen  years  old.  "  You're  a  fool,  Willy  !" 
he  said,  trembling.  "  I'm  going  to  send  to  Mercer 
for  a  man  ;  this  isn't  a  time  for  boys  !"  "  I  wish  you 
would,  sir,"  Willy  said,  earnestly  ;  "  and  why  don't 
you  have  Wilder  from  Upper  Chester?  He's  first- 
rate." 

322 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

Afterwards,  as  he  drove  Lucy  home,  the  doctor 
said  that  if  it  was  the  slightest  comfort  to  Mr.  Hor 
ace,  he  wished  he  would  call  in  all  the  doctors  in  the 
township.  "  Not  that  there  is  a  single  thing  to  do," 
said  Willy,  slapping  his  rein  down  on  Jinny's  shin 
ing  flank;  "  Mr.  Jim  has  come  to  the  end.  And  poor 
old  Mr.  Horace  will  break  his  heart." 

His  little  sister-in-law  looked  over  at  the  runner 
cutting  into  unbroken  snow  at  the  edge  of  the  road. 
"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 


II 

Little  Lucy  was  sorry,  but  her  sorrow  did  not  keep 
her  from  shrinking  away  up-stairs  when  Martha  be 
gan  to  ask  the  doctor  the  particulars  of  the  morning: 
"Another  spasm  at  twelve?  Well,  I  suppose  his 
feet  have  begun  to  swell  ?  I  hope  he  won't  last  much 
longer,  poor  man.  I  felt  just  so  about  father ;  I 
didn't  want  him  to  linger,  and — "  but  just  here  Lucy 
slipped  out  of  the  room,  and  her  sister  looked  after 
her  open-mouthed.  As  for  the  doctor,  he  plodded 
industriously  through  his  very  good  dinner,  and  told 
her  every  detail ;  and  when  he  had  finished  the  din 
ner  and  the  disease,  he  added,  absently,  "  She  is  very 
sensitive,  isn't  she  ?" 

"  Who  ?"  said  Martha. 

"Why,  your  sister." 

"Oh,  Lucy  ?  She  is  very  silly,  I'm  afraid.  I  don't 
believe  in  calling  foolishness  sensitiveness !  And 
you  told  old  Mr.  Horace  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  told  him,  poor  old  fellow  !" 

"  Well,  he  ought  to  be  glad  to  have  Mr.  Jim  free 
323 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

from  suffering,"  the  doctor's  wife  said,  kindly.  "  I 
should  have  told  him  so,  flatly  and  frankly.  What 
did  he  say  ?" 

"  He  said  I  was  a  fool."  Willy  answered,  smiling. 
"  He's  going  to  have  further  advice." 

"  I  hope  he  has  the  money  to  pay  for  it,"  Martha 
said;  "he  won't  find  .hat  all  doctors  are  like  you, 
Willy.  One  would  think,  to  look  at  some  of  your 
bills,  that  you  were  independently  rich,  instead  of 
just  a  poor  country  doctor.  And  now  here's  Lucy 
come  to  be  a  burden  on  you — " 

"  She  isn't  a  burden  at  all,"  William  King  said. 
"  She  doesn't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  sparrow  alive, 
and  I  guess  even  Mr.  Horace's  account  will  provide 
for  that."  Then  he  looked  out  of  the  window  :  "  it 
isn't  as  if  we  had  children  of  our  own  we  had  to  save 
for,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  King  was  silent. 

As  for  Willy,  he  went  back  and  spent  the  after 
noon  with  the  twins.  The  end  was  very  near  ;  for 
the  "  man  "  that  Mr.  Horace  had  sent  for  confirmed 
the  "boy";  and  by-and-by  Jim  confirmed  them 
both. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Horry,"  the  dying  man  said,  mov 
ing  his  big,  lionlike,  gray  head  restlessly — "I've — got 
to — let  go." 

Mr.  Horace  set  his  jaws  together  and  drew  a  de 
termined  breath.  "  Of  course  you  have — of  course 
you  have.  Now  don't  worry.  I'll  get  along.  Come 
now,  cheer  up  !" 

"  But  you'll  be  so  damned  lonely,"  whimpered  the 
other.  He  was  blind,  and  could  not  see  his  little 
brother  wipe  his  eyes,  and  blink,  and  swallow  to  get 
his  voice  steady. 

324 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

"Well,  yes,  of  course  ;  somewhat.  But  I  can  get 
along  first-rate ;  and  I'll  get  more  time  for  read 
ing." 

"  Reading  !"  said  the  other,  with  a  snort.  "  Much 
reading  you'll  do  !  No,  you'll  be — just  damned  lone 
ly,"  he  said  again,  with  a  groan. 

"  Don't  think  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Horace,  his  voice 
trembling.  "  I — I  won't  mind  it  in  the  least,  my  dear 
fellow.  Oh,  James  !"  he  ended,  weakly.  He  looked 
up  at  Willy  King,  but  the  doctor  was  making  a  pre 
tence  of  dropping  some  medicine  into  a  glass,  so  as 
to  hide  his  own  blurring  eyes.  As  for  Dr.  Laven- 
dar,  who  was  there  too,  he  took  the  groping,  dying 
hand,  and  said, 

"Jim,  we'll  all  stand  by  him — "  and  then  he  took 
out  his  big  red  silk  handkerchief,  and  his  breath 
caught  in  a  sob.  For,  like  everybody  else,  he  loved 
Jim  Shields.  To  be  sure,  he  winced  at  certain  words 
which  honest  old  Mr.  Jim  used  with  surprising  free 
dom  ;  but  apparently  he  never  took  them  much  to 
heart.  "Jim — Jim,  don't  be  profane,"  he  would  re 
monstrate,  with  a  horrified  look.  And  Jim,  sweat 
ing  with  pain,  would  gasp  out : 

"The  devil  take  it !  I  forgot  the  cloth.  I  apologize; 
but  I  wasn't  profane.  Profanity  is  unnecessary 
swearing,  and  if  this  isn't  necessary,  I'll  be — " 

"James!     James!     James!"  .... 

But  now  when  Jim  Shields  lay  dying,  his  wicked 
tongue,  his  impudent  courage  were  an  expression  of 
his  religion  ;  and  the  old  minister  had  eyes  to  see 
this.  So  he  only  patted  the  blind,  groping  hand, 
and  said  : 

"  Jim,  we'll  do  all  we  can  for  Horace.  Never  you 
fear  !" 

325 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"Who's  afraid?"  said  Mr.  Jim,  thickly.  "  But  I— 
can't  hold  on — much — longer.  Damned  if  I  can." 

"  Don't  try — don't  try,"  Horace  entreated,  in  an 
guish.  Then  came  a  long,  dull  effort,  and  the  heavy, 
muffled  tongue  said  one  pathetic  word, 

"  Lonely  ?" 

"  No,"  old  Mr.  Horace  said  again — "no;  I  won't  be 
lonely.  Mind  now,  Jim,  I  won't  be  lonely.  Do  you 
hear?  Jim,  I  won't.  Jim — do  you  liear?" 

So,  bravely,  old  Horace  Shields  told  his  lie  to  make 
dying  less  deadly  for  his  brother. 

Then  he  went  on  living  as  well  as  he  could,  meet 
ing  first  the  visible  loneliness,  if  one  may  call  it  so — 
the  silent  house,  the  empty  chair,  the  fuller  purse. 
The  occupation  of  service  was  ended  ;  the  anxiety 
was  over  ;  the  habits  of  life  were  torn  to  pieces. 
Ah,  me  !  How  much  of  the  torment  of  grief  comes 
from  this  violent  change  of  the  habits  of  life  !  For 
Mr.  Horace  there  were  no  more  duties  :  he  need  not 
roll  a  wheeled  chair  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street  ; 
he  need  not  taste  the  beef-tea  to  see  if  it  had  enough 
pepper  ;  he  need  not  bring  out  the  chess-board  ;  he 
need  not  do  a  hundred  other  small  services  ;  his  habit 
of  affection  was  over,  and  the  habit  of  grief  had  not 
yet  come  to  him.  He  went  blundering  and  stagger 
ing  through  the  overwhelming  leisure  of  material 
loneliness.  As  for  the  spiritual  loneliness  —  but 
enough  of  that !  Those  of  us  who  have  reached 
middle  life  do  not  need  the  telling;  and  the  younger 
folk  would  not  understand  it  if  they  were  told. 
They  are  dancing  to  the  piping  of  Life,  and  one  of 
these  days  they'll  pay  the  piper  ;  then  they  will 
understand. 

326 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

But  everybody  was  very  good  to  poor  old  Mr.  Hor 
ace  in  his  affliction.  Mrs.  Dale  sent  him  wine  jelly  in 
a  rabbit  mould.  Mrs.  Drayton  presented  him  with 
a  "  booklet "  bound  in  white  and  gold,  and  named 
Tears  Wiped  Away ;  but  she  sighed  a  little  when 
she  wrapped  it  up,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Wright  that  poor 
James  Shields's  language  was  not  that  to  fit  a  man 
for  dying  ;  however,  she  hoped  the  Lord  would  over 
look  it :  in  fact,  she  had  asked  Him  to  do  so.  Miss 
Wellwood — she  was  just  then  about  to  become  Mrs, 
Barkley,  so  it  was  especially  kind  in  her  to  think  of 
other  people's  sorrows  —  carried  him  a  handful  of 
ambrosia,  which,  having  been  first  dipped  in  water, 
and  then  rolled  in  flour,  formed  a  white  and  shaking 
decoration,  suitable,  Miss  Maria  thought,  for  a  house 
of  mourning. 

Dr.  Lavendar  used  to  come  and  sit  with  him  in 
the  evening,  and  smoke  silently;  noticing,  as  silently, 
that  Jim's  chair  and  footstool  had  not  been  removed, 
and  that  the  chess-board  had  remained  just  as  it  had 
been  left  at  the  last  game — that  pathetic  effort  of 
grief  to  find  permanence.  Sam  Wright  sent  Mr. 
Horace  a  case  of  wine  ;  Willy  King  was  very  atten 
tive  ;  and  Martha  wrote  him  a  kind,  sensible  letter, 
telling  him  that  if  he  would  remember  that  Mr.  Jim 
was  at  rest  he  would  be  reconciled,  she  was  sure. 
And  then  she  added  that  she  had  heard  that  he 
would  not  have  Mr.  Jim's  room  changed,  but  that 
she  did  hope  he  would  not  make  such  a  mistake. 
"It  is  easier  to  change  things  now  than  it  will  be 
later,"  she  said,  very  truly,  "  so  I  do  hope  you  will 
just  have  the  parlor  renovated.  Take  my  word,  it 
will  be  easier  for  you  in  the  end." 

Mr.  Horace,  when  he  had  read  this  very  good 
327 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

advice,  poked  her  letter  down  into  the  fire,  and  then 
looked  around  the  room,  fiercely,  as  though  chal 
lenging  what  everybody  will  agree  was  common- 
sense. 

A  good  many  letters  of  sympathy  came,  but  Mr. 
Horace  did  not  read  them.  He  put  them  away  in 
his  desk  in  the  shop.  Nor  did  his  kindly,  sorry  old 
friends  venture  to  talk  about  James.  "  He  can't 
bear  that,  it  appears,"  Dr.  Lavendar  said,  sadly,  and 
smoked  in  pitying  silence. 

It  was  all  silence  to  Mr.  Horace — a  silence  without 
interest.  He  went  into  the  store  every  morning, 
and  looked  listlessly  about ;  there  was  the  mail  to  be 
opened — when  there  was  any  mail,  and  occasional 
customers  to  be  waited  on.  There  was  the  trade 
paper  to  be  read,  and  sometimes  circulars.  Jim  used 
to  make  the  circulars  into  spills  to  light  his  pipe, 
because,  he  said,  everything  ought  to  be  of  some  use 
in  the  world,  even  lies.  But  the  interest  of  the  shop, 
the  story  of  the  day's  doings  to  be  told  to  Jim,  was 
gone.  After  supper  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
sit  alone  in  the  parlor,  with  the  faded  landscapes  on 
the  wall,  and  the  twinkle  of  lamplight  in  the  prisms 
of  the  candelabra,  and  the  chess-board  open  on  the 
table.  Nothing  for  it  but  to  sit  there  and  think  of 
James  with  every  muscle  of  the  body  and  the  soul 
held  back  from  its  customed  movement  of  service 
and  of  care — so  tense  and  so  weary  that  when  sleep 
relaxed  his  vigilance  for  a  moment  these  faithful 
servants  of  years  of  affection  moved  automatically, 
and  he  would  put  his  hand  on  the  chess-board,  or 
wake  with  a  start,  calling  out  :  "  James  !  What  is  it  ? 
James — " 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 


III 

"  I  tried  to  tell  old  Mr.  Horace  how  I  sympathize 
with  him,"  said  Mrs.  King,  "  and  he  just  said,  *  Oh  yes  ; 
yes,  yes.  Do  you  think  we  are  going  to  have  rain  ?' 
Some  one  ought  to  tell  him,  flatly  and  frankly,  to 
try  and  accustom  himself  to  speak  of  Mr.  Jim;  it 
would  be  a  great  deal  better  for  him." 

Lucy  was  silent,  sitting  with  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
looking  out  of  the  window  into  the  rainy  garden. 
Her  worsted-work  had  been  given  up  soon  after  she 
came  to  live  with  her  sister,  for  Martha  had  pointed 
out  to  her  that  it  was  very  foolish  to  make  things 
nobody  needed  ;  "the  Jay  girls  do  enough  of  that," 
said  Mrs.  King,  with  a  good-natured  laugh.  So 
Lucy's  hands  were  idle,  and  her  sister  made  an  im 
patient  gesture.  "  How  can  you  sit  there,  Lucy,  and 
do  nothing?" 

"  I'm  going  to  read,"  Lucy  said. 

"What  is  your  book?"  her  sister  inquired,  kind 
ly;  and  Lucy  displayed  a  paper-cover,  which  made 
Martha  shake  her  head  and  smile  and  sigh. 

"  A  novel !  Lucy,  don't  you  do  any  improving 
reading?" 

"  I  don't  like  improving  reading,"  Lucy  said,  ner 
vously. 

Martha  put  her  work  down.  "  Now,  Lucy,  look 
here  ;  I  don't  believe  you  mean  what  you  say,  but  if 
you  do  mean  it,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  say  it." 

"  I'll  sew,  if  you  want  me  to,"  said  Lucy,  turning 
white  and  red. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  sew  for  me,"  the  doctor's 
wife  said.  "  I  can  do  my  own  work.  But  I  must 

"  329 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

say  I  don't  see  how  you  can  be  willing  to  be  idle, 
You  do  nothing  but  take  care  of  that  poor  canary- 
bird —  (the  most  untidy  thing  I  ever  had  in  my 
house  !)  Upon  my  word,  Lucy,  if  I  had  a  dozen 
daughters,  I'd  bring  every  one  of  them  up  to  do 
something,  so  they  shouldn't  be  dependent !" 

"  I'd  like  to  do  something,"  Lucy  answered,  faintly, 
"but  I  don't  know  anything." 

"Well,  that's  just  what  I  say,"  her  sister  said. 
"But  I  suppose  there's  no  use  talking  !"  Yet,  after 
the  manner  of  ladies  who  say  there  is  no  use  talk 
ing,  the  doctor's  wife  continued  to  talk.  She  had 
talked  pretty  much  all  winter.  Little  Lucy  had 
shrunk  and  shivered,  and  gone  up-stairs  to  cry  all 
by  herself,  but  nothing  had  come  of  it.  She  was  so 
silent  and  apathetic,  so  incapable  of  repartee,  that 
it  must  be  said  in  excuse  for  Martha,  that  she  had 
no  conception  how  her  words  stung.  Apparently 
they  made  no  impression  whatever;  which  lured  her 
on  into  greater  and  greater  frankness — that  virtue 
in  whose  name  so  many  unpleasantnesses  are  com 
mitted  !  Once  the  doctor  said,  nervously,  he  did 
wish  she  would  let  up  on  that  child  ;  and  his  wife, 
a  little  hurt,  said  that  she  was  only  speaking  for 
Lucy's  good.  "  If  I  had  ten  girls  of  my  own,"  she 
said,  "  I  would  bring  them  up  to  have  proper  ideas 
of  work." 

"  I  think  ten  girls  with  proper  ideas  would  be 
dreadful  to  live  with,"  said  the  doctor,  conjugally. 
And  then  he  went  up-stairs  and  knocked  on  Lucy's 
door,  and  produced  a  little  package. 

"A  present — for  me?"  Lucy  said,  and  pulled  open 
the  parcel,  and  found  a  little  pin  lying  on  a  bed  of 
pink  cotton. 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

"  Oh,  brother  William  !"  she  said,  and  gave  him 
her  hand ;  and  then,  on  an  impulse,  put  up  her  face 
and  kissed  him. 

As  for  Willy  King,  he  blushed  to  his  ears.  Then 
she  bade  him  wait  while  she  put  the  pin  into  the 
black  ribbon  bow  at  her  throat.  "Does  it  look 
pretty  ?"  she  said,  anxiously.  The  doctor  put  his 
head  on  one  side,  and  said  that  it  did. 

Lucy  looked  in  the  glass,  and  took  the  pin  out 
and  stuck  it  in  at  a  different  angle.  "  Isn't  that 
better  ?"  she  said ;  and  Willy  turned  her  round  to 
the  light,  and  said,  critically,  he  believed  it  was. 

He  went  down-stairs  smiling  to  himself.  "  I  gave 
Lucy  a  pin,"  he  told  his  wife.  "  She  was  as  pleased 
as  a  little  kitten." 

"A  pin!"  said  Martha.  "Why,  Willy  King!  as  if 
you  didn't  have  expense  enough  in  buying  her  shoes 
and  stockings  !  And  I  must  say,  considering  how 
hard  it  is  to  make  both  ends  meet,  it  was  extrava 
gant,  my  dear." 

"  It  was  only  five  dollars,"  her  husband  defended 
himself. 

"Wilson's  bill  for  fixing  the  drain  is  five  dollars," 
Mrs.  King  observed,  significantly.  "  Justice  before 
generosity,  my  dear." 

William  King  made  no  reply,  but  he  knew  she  was 
right  ;  which  did  not  make  him  any  more  affection 
ate.  For  men  love  their  wives  not  because  of  their 
virtues,  but  in  spite  of  them. 

As  for  Martha,  she  was  really  troubled.  "  We  can't 
afford  to  make  presents,"  she  said  to  herself  ;  she  was 
putting  a  new  binding  on  her  dress,  and  her  fingers 
were  dusty,  and  her  mind  in  the  ruffled  condition 
peculiar  to  this  occupation.  When  Lucy  came  and 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

showed  her  the  little  pin,  it  took  real  grace  on  poor 
Martha's  part  not  to  express  her  opinion. 

Instead,  she  glanced  at  her  over  her  glasses,  and 
said,  kindly  :  "  You  look  a  little  pale,  Lucy.  If  you 
feel  chilly  you  had  better  take  some  quinine." 

"  I  hurt  my  ankle  when  I  went  out  to  walk,"  Lucy 
explained,  her  sister's  interest  rousing  her  a  little. 
"  I  tripped  on  the  board  walk  on  the  common  ;  it  had 
a  hole  in  it." 

"  That's  very  dangerous— I  mean  the  hole,"  Mar 
tha  said  ;  "  your  ankle  will  be  all  right  as  soon  as 
you  have  rested  it.  Put  your  foot  up  on  a  chair." 

"  I  don't  think  I  want  to,"  Lucy  said. 

"  Oh,  you'll  be  a  great  deal  more  comfortable !" 
Martha  said,  with  kindly  decision  ;  and  got  up  her 
self,  and  brought  a  chair  and  a  pillow,  and  lifted  the 
strained  ankle  gently.  "  There,  that's  better  !"  she 
said.  Lucy  sighed.  "  But  about  the  hole  in  the 
board  walk  :  some  one  might  hurt  themselves  se 
riously.  You  had  better  write  a  note  to  Sam  Wright 
about  it ;  he  is  the  burgess,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  !"  Lucy  said,  horrified. 

Martha  put  her  work  down  and  looked  at  her. 
"  Lucy,  have  you  no  sense  of  responsibility  ?  Don't 
you  care  to  make  things  better  ?" 

"  I  wouldn't  write  to  him  for  anything  in  the 
world  !"  said  Lucy. 

Martha  shook  her  head.  "  That's  not  the  way  to 
look  at  life,  Lucy.  But  I'm  afraid  it's  part  of  your 
nature.  I'm  afraid  it's  the  same  characteristic  which 
makes  you  willing  to  be  idle  when  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  is  at  work." 

And  Lucy,  turning  white  and  red,  said  not  a  single 
word. 

332 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

Mrs.  King  sighed  and  went  on  with  her  binding  ; 
arguing  with  Lucy  was  like  trying  to  sew  with  no 
knot  in  your  thread.  Martha  was  seriously  troubled 
about  her  sister  ;  not  so  much  at  the  girl's  absolute 
inefficiency  as  at  the  lack  in  character  which  it  in 
dicated.  All  winter  she  had  been  trying,  honestly 
and  prayerfully,  to  correct  it,  with  about  as  much 
success  as  one  who  tries,  with  big,  well  -  meaning, 
human  ringers  to  smooth  out  a  butterfly's  crumpled 
wing,  or  to  free  some  silken,  shining  petal  which  has 
caught  and  twisted  in  its  imprisoning  calyx. 

Well,  well  !  if  good  people  would  only  be  content 
to  know  that  the  rest  of  us  cannot  reach  their  level, 
how  much  irritation  they  would  spare  themselves  ! — 
and  we,  too,  in  little  ways,  would  be  happier.  Though 
that,  of  course,  does  not  matter. 

The  fact  was,  poor  Lucy's  virtues  were  not  econo 
mic  or  civic  ;  they  were,  perhaps,  nothing  more  than 
a  little  kindly  heart,  pure  thoughts,  and  a  pretty, 
eager  smile  ;  but  they  were  her  own.  Martha  con 
scientiously  tried  to  bestow  hers  upon  the  child  ;  and 
Lucy  grew  more  and  more  silent. 

"  I  make  absolutely  no  impression  !"  poor  Martha 
said,  sighing  ;  and  Willy  replied,  under  his  breath, 
"  Thank  heaven  !" 

However,  she  did  make  an  impression  at  last. 

It  was  at  night,  and  Martha,  going  up  to  bed,  saw 
a  light  under  Lucy's  door.  "  How  foolish  of  her  to 
sit  up  so  late  !"  she  thought — for  it  was  late.  Martha 
had  waited  up  to  see  that  the  doctor  had  something 
hot  to  eat  and  drink  when  he  came  in  at  midnight 
from  a  late  call  (thus  was  Willy  justified  of  common- 
sense  in  a  wife).  And  here  was  Lucy's  lamp  burning 
at  nearly  one. 

333 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Martha,  in  a  warm  and  ugly  gray  flannel  dressing- 
gown,  knocked  at  the  door,  and  entered,  her  candle 
in  her  hand,  and  her  work-basket  under  one  arm. 
"Why,  you're  rather  late,  aren't  you,  Lucy  ?"  she  said, 
disapprovingly. 

Lucy  was  sitting  over  a  little  fire  which  had  re 
treated  into  one  corner  of  the  grate  ;  she  shivered  as 
she  looked  up.  "  I'm  just  going  to  bed,"  she  said. 

"  It's  foolish  to  sit  up  when  you  don't  have  to," 
Martha  said,  decidedly. 

"  I  got  worried  about  brother  William,"  Lucy  con 
fessed  ;  "  I  wanted  to  make  sure  he  was  at  home — 
there's  such  a  storm  to-night." 

"  Worried  !"  cried  her  sister,  laughing  in  spite  of 
herself.  "Why.  he's  at  home,  safe  and  sound,  eat 
ing  some  supper  down-stairs.  My  dear,  worry  is  the 
most  foolish  thing  in  the  world.  I  never  worry. 
Now  do  go  to  bed.  Here,  I'll  slake  your  fire  for 
you." 

She  took  up  the  poker,  stirring  the  discouraged- 
looking  fire  vigorously  ;  then  she  lifted  the  coal 
scuttle  in  her  strong  hands  and  flung  the  slake  on  ; 
there  was  a  small  burst  of  flame,  and  the  smell  of 
coal  dust  and  gas. 

"  Oh,  it's  so  unpleasant  !"  said  Lucy,  drawing  back. 

"  There  are  a  great  many  unpleasant  things  in  this 
world,  Lucy,"  said  Martha,  shortly.  "  Come,  now, 
go  to  bed  !  It  isn't  as  if  you  had  any  duty  which 
kept  you  up." 

"  Yes  ;  I  will,"  Lucy  said,  listlessly. 

"  Dear  me,  Lucy,  I  don't  know  what  you  would  do 
if  you  had  any  duties.  I  sometimes  think  it's  fort 
unate  for  you  that  your  brother-in-law  is  so  good- 
natured.  Most  men,  especially  if  they  were  poor 

334 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

country  doctors  like  Willy,  would  rather  resent  it  to 
have  to  support  their  wives'  sisters,  who  haven't  a 
single  care  or  duty  in  the  world  except  to  look  after 
a  canary-bird.  (I  don't  see  how  you  can  keep  that 
bird,  it's  so  untidy  !)" 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  Lucy  said,  getting  up 
and  looking  at  her  with  frightened  eyes —  "  and  — 
and — I'll  try  not  to  eat  so  much,  sister  Martha." 

Martha  winced  at  that.  "  Oh,  don't  be  foolish, 
my  dear  !  It  isn't  the  eating,  or  anything  like  that. 
It's  the  principle :  I  would  earn  my  way.  But  don't 
be  foolish  and  talk  about  not  eating !"  Mrs.  King 
had  the  sensation  of  having  stepped  down  further 
than  she  expected — a  sort  of  moral  jar. 

"  I  would  do  anything  I  could,"  said  little  Lucy, 
beginning  suddenly  to  cry  convulsively.  "  I  don't 
like  to  be  a  burden  on  brother  William  ;  but  I  never 
learned  to  do  anything,  and — " 

"  Yes,  that's  just  what  I  said  ;  father  never  had 
you  taught  anything.  You  might  give  music  lessons, 
if  he  had  ever  made  you  practise  thoroughly  ;  but  he 
was  just  satisfied  to  have  you  play  tunes  to  him  after 
supper.  I  don't  blame  you,  but  I  do  blame  father. 
I— " 

"  Stop  blaming  father !  Oh,  my  father  !  my 
father  !" 

Lucy  ran,  panting,  to  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
and  caught  up  a  little  photograph  of  her  father  and 
held  it  against  her  breast. 

Martha  looked  at  her  in  consternation  and  serious 
disapproval.  "  How  can  you  be  so  foolish,  Lucy  ?" 
she  said.  "  Well,  there's  no  use  talking  ;  only,  I 
must  say,  flatly  and  frankly — " 

"  Martha,  I  won't  hear  my  father  criticised.  I  wish 
335 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

I  was  dead  with  him.  Oh,  father  !"  the  poor  child 
broke  out.  And  then  there  was  a  fit  of  crying,  and 
she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  face  down,  and  would 
not  speak  when  her  sister  tried  to  comfort  her. 

"  There,  now,  come  !"  Mrs.  King  said  ;  and  patted 
her  shoulder,  which  showed  no  yielding; — there  is 
nothing  which  can  be  so  obstinate  as  the  shoulder  of 
a  crying  woman. 

Mrs.  King  was  really  uneasy  when  she  left  her. 
She  even  went  so  far  as  to  tell  the  doctor  that  she 
thought  he  had  better  look  after  Lucy. 

"  I  think  she's  inclined  to  be  hysterical,"  she  said. 
"  She  is  a  foolish  girl,  I'm  afraid,  but  I  think  she's 
really  nervous,  too.  What  do  you  suppose,  Willy  ? 
she  was  sitting  up  over  a  miserable  little  fire,  worry 
ing^  if  you  please,  because  you  were  late  !  I  have  no 
patience  with  women  who  worry.  Either  the  thing 
will  happen,  or  it  won't ;  and  sitting  up  in  the  cold, 
until  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  won't  accomplish 
anything  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  Worrying  ?  about  me  !"  said  the  doctor,  stopping 
with  a  suspender  in  one  out-stretched  hand  ;  "  well !" 


IV 

But  the  worm  had  turned.  In  her  hopeless,  unin 
terested  way,  Lucy  had  made  up  her  mind  :  she 
would  not  be  a  burden  any  longer.  She  would  go  to 
Mercer  and  try  to  get  pupils,  and  give  music  lessons. 
She  was  not  resentful,  she  was  not  bitter,  still  less 
was  she  in  intelligent  accord  with  her  sister  ;  she 
was  only  started,  so  to  speak,  like  a  stone  that  has 
been  pushed  past  a  certain  point  of  resistance, 

336 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

A  week  after  this  talk  she  told  Martha  that  she 
was  going  to  Mercer.  "  I  am  going  to  visit  Miss 
Sarah  Murray  ;  she  invited  me  to  visit  her  some 
time  this  winter.  And  I'll  take  Dick." 

Mrs.  King  put  down  her  sewing.  "  I  shouldn't 
think  you  would  want  to  make  visits,  Lucy,  with 
father  dead  only  six  months.  I  should  think  you 
would  rather  stay  quietly  here  with  me,  considering 
that  we  are  both  in  affliction." 

Lucy  made  no  reply. 

"  But  of  course  you  are  perfectly  free  to  do  as  you 
please,"  her  sister  went  on. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  go,"  Lucy  said. 

There  was  something  in  her  voice  that  made  Mrs. 
King  uneasy.  "  I  don't  see  why  you  say  that ;  of 
course,  if  you  want  to  go — why,  go  !  But  I  must 
say  it  looks  as  though  you  were  not  contented,  and 
it  sort  of  reflects  on  your  brother-in-law." 

"  Oh !  no,  no  !"  Lucy  said,  in  an  agitated  way  ; 
"he  has  been  so  kind  to  me  !" 

Somehow,  Martha  King  winced  at  that,  though 
she  did  not  know  why. 

The  doctor,  when  he  heard  the  news,  frowned  ; 
and  then  he  half  sighed.  "  Oh,  well,  she's  young," 
he  said. 

But  he  chucked  his  little  sister-in-law  under  the 
chin  when  he  came  down  to  breakfast,  and  told  her 
that  if  she  stayed  away  too  long  he  would  come  and 
bring  her  home.  "  And  look  here,  Lucy,  you  must 
have  a  new  cape  or  bonnet  or  something.  What  do 
you  say  to  a  pink  bonnet  ?" 

Willy  smiled  all  over  his  face,  but  his  jaw  fell  when 
Martha  said,  "  Now,  Willy  !  how  can  she  wear  pink 
when  she  is  in  black  ?" 

337 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"Oh — oh  yes,"  the  doctor  said,  awkwardly.  And 
then,  for  no  reason  in  particular,  he  sighed  ; — per 
haps  the  child  would  be  happier  in  Mercer.  "  Well," 
he  said,  "  you  can  have  an  escort,  if  you  go  on 
Wednesday,  Lucy;  —  Mr.  Horace  Shields.  I'll  ask 
him  to  look  after  you.  He's  going  East  to  give  his 
spring  order." 

"  So  I  heard  at  Sewing  Society,"  Martha  said. 
"Well,  I  think  he  is  a  very  foolish  old  man." 

Mrs.  King  was  not  alone  in  this  belief.  Old  Ches 
ter  was  greatly  disturbed  by  this  project  of  Mr. 
Horace's  ;  he  had  always  ordered  his  goods  by  mail, 
and  to  take  a  journey  for  the  purpose  was  obviously 
unnecessary. 

"  I  don't  like  restlessness,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  with  a 
stern  look. 

"Sam  sent  him  some  wine,"  said  Mrs.  Wright, 
"  and  I  am  sure  we  were  all  very  kind  to  him  ;  so 
why  should  he  go  away  from  home  ?" 

"  Besides,"  said  Mrs.  Drayton,  "  who  can  make  up 
to  him  for  his  loss  so  well  as  his  friends?  We  all 
liked  poor  Mr.  James — though  he  did  certainly  use 
improper  language  at  times.  I  once  heard  him  use 
a  profane  word  myself.  I  should  not  be  willing  to 
repeat  it.  It  was — not  the  worst  one,  but  the  one 
with  *r'  in  it,  you  know." 

The  ladies  shook  their  heads,  except  Mrs.  Barkley, 
who  said,  harshly,  that,  for  her  part,  she  didn't  won 
der  at  Jim  Shields  ;  she  believed  she  would  have  said 
something  stronger  than  "dear  me"  herself.  But 
Martha  King  said,  seriously,  that  she  hoped  Mrs. 
Drayton  had  told  him,  flatly  and  frankly,  how  wrong 
it  was  to  lose  one's  self-control  and  swear. 

"Well,  no,  I  didn't,"  Mrs.  Drayton  confessed. 
338 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

"It's  so  painful  to   me  to   speak   severely  to   any 
one." 

"  Because  it  is  painful  is  no  reason  for  not  doing 
one's  duty,"  Martha  returned,  decidedly. 

"Well,  as  for  his  going  away,"  said  Mrs.  Drayton, 
"probably  he  hasn't  been  so  overwhelmed  by  grief 
as  we  thought.  I  judged  him  by  myself.  If  /  had 
lost  a  loved  one,  I  couldn't  go  travelling  about.  But 
I'm  sure  I  hope  he'll  enjoy  himself,  poor  man  !" 

And  all  the  Sewing  Society  said  it  was  sure  it 
hoped  so,  too. 

It  was  a  rainy  morning  in  March  that  Mr.  Horace 
went  away.  The  stage  was  waiting  for  him  at  the 
door  of  the  tavern  when  he  came  hurrying  down  the 
street — he  had  been  delayed  by  giving  directions  to 
Mrs.  Todd,  who  was  to  keep  the  shop  open  during 
his  absence — and  there  was  the  doctor  holding  an 
umbrella  over  a  slim  girl  in  a  black  frock,  who  was 
carrying  a  bird-cage  in  one  nervous  little  hand. 

"This  is  Lucy,  Mr.  Horace,"  Willy  King  said. 
"  We  will  be  so  much  obliged  if  you  will  look  after 
her  on  the  way." 

"  To  be  sure  I  will — to  be  sure  I  will,"  said  Mr. 
Horace  ;  and  the  little  girl  put  her  hand  in  his  with 
out  a  word. 

She  was  the  only  other  passenger ;  and  when 
Willy  had  tucked  the  robe  around  her,  and  smuggled 
a  bag  of  candy  into  her  muff,  the  door,  with  its 
painted  landscape,  was  slammed  to,  and  the  stage, 
pitching  and  creaking  on  its  springs,  started  up  the 
hill,  passing  the  church  and  then  the  graveyard — at 
which  Mr.  Horace  looked  through  the  streaming 
rain  on  the  coach  window.  His  fellow  -  traveller, 
however,  turned  her  face  away. 

339 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

There  was  something  in  the  shrinking  movement 
that  touched  Mr.  Horace.  He  remembered  that 
Willy  had  told  him  the  child  had  had  some  sorrow— 
if  one  can  say  sorrow  in  connection  with  youth  ;  so 
he  made  an  effort  to  come  out  of  his  absorption,  and 
talk  to  her,  and  cheer  her. 

She  had  very  little  to  say,  only  answering  him  in 
gentle  monosyllables,  until  by  some  chance  he  re 
ferred  to  her  father. 

"  I  met  him  several  years  ago,  ma'am  ;  and  my 
brother  James  had  some  acquaintance  with  him." 

Lucy's  eyes  suddenly  rilled. 

Mr.  Horace  looked  at  her,  with  instant  sympathy 
in  his  ruddy  old  face.  So  youth  may  grieve,  after 
all? 

"  My  dear,  I  have  recently  suffered  a  loss  myself," 
he  said,  gently. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Lucy  ;  "  I  know.  I  was  very  sorry, 
sir." 

"Ah  —  well,"  said  Mr.  Horace,  with  a  sigh — "he 
was  sick  a  long  time.  I  ought  not  to  begrudge  him 
his  release.  Yes,  he  had  been  invalid  for  many  years. 
But  he  was  the  bravest  of  the  brave.  My  brother 
was  a  sailor  in  his  youth.  He  had  many  interesting 
adventures.  He  has  told  me  stories  of  his  advent 
ures  by  the  hour.  But  when  he  came  to  be  an  in 
valid,  after  such  an  active  life,  he  never  flinched. 
The  bravest  of  the  brave  !" 

"  My  father  was  brave,"  said  Lucy. 

"  My  brother  had  been  in  most  foreign  lands," 
Mr.  Horace  went  on.  "  He  was  shipwrecked  twice 
before  he  was  thirty.  I  recollect,  as  well  as  if  it  was 
yesterday,  how  he  came  home  after  that  first  time 
he  was  wrecked.  We  had  given  him  up.  My  moth- 

340 


MR.   HORACE   LOOKED    AT    HER    WITH    INSTANT    SYMPATHY 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

er  was  up-stairs  cutting  out  those  little  —  ah,  gar 
ments  that  children  wear.  She  was  cutting  out  a 
pair  to  go  in  a  missionary  barrel.  Well,  James  just 
walked  into  the  room,  as  casually  as  if  he  hadn't 
been  out  of  the  house.  My  mother  (I  recollect  per 
fectly)  she  threw  up  her  hands — she  had  the  scissors 
on  her  thumb  and  finger  —  and  she  said,  'Why, 
James,  where  on  earth  did  you  come  from  ?'  And 
my  brother  he  said  :  '  From  the  waters  under  the 
earth  ;  from  India's  coral  strands,'  he  said.  (You 
know  the  hymn?)  'But  I  haven't  any  coral,  or  any 
clothes  —  except  what  you  see,'  he  said.  'I  hope 
you'll  give  me  those  things';  meaning  the  —  the 
small  garment ;  and  he  stood  six  feet  two  !" 

Lucy  smiled  vaguely. 

"  It  was  a  joke,"  Mr.  Horace  explained. 

"Oh  yes,  I  see.  My  father  was  a  good  deal  like 
that,  saying  funny  things.  They're  pleasant  to  live 
with,  such  people." 

"  They  are,  indeed — they  are,  indeed,"  Mr.  Horace 
agreed,  sighing.  "  My  brother's  humor  was  invinci 
ble,  perfectly  invincible.  Why,  I  recollect  perfectly— 

The  story  he  remembered  was  not  brilliant  humor, 
but  Lucy  was  as  polite  as  if  it  were,  and  capped  it 
with  something  her  father  had  said  ;  and  then  Mr. 
Horace  followed  quickly  with  another  "  I  remem 
ber."  Perhaps  they  neither  of  them  really  heard 
what  the  other  said,  but  they  found  infinite  relief  in 
speaking.  Why  Mr.  Horace  could  not  have  "  recol 
lected  perfectly "  to  Dr.  Lavendar,  or  why  little 
Lucy  could  not  have  talked,  if  not  to  her  sister,  at 
least  to  her  kindly  brother-in-law,  is  one  of  those  in 
explicable  things  that  belong  to  grief.  It  was  easier 
for  each  because  the  other  was  a  stranger. 

341 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

When  the  stage  pulled  into  Mercer,  the  wheels 
tired  in  mud,  and  the  apron  over  the  trunks  stream 
ing  with  rain,  the  two  travellers  were  talking  very 
freely.  Indeed,  Lucy  had  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that 
she  was  going  to  give  music  lessons. 

"  I'm  going  to  visit  Miss  Sarah  Murray  first. 
When  I  get  some  pupils,  I'll  board  somewhere,"  she 
added,  vaguely. 

"  My  brother  Jim  knew  the  Misses  Murray,"  said 
Mr.  Horace.  "  I  have  heard  him  remark  that  Miss 
Sarah,  the  eldest,  was  a  very  genteel  and  accom 
plished  female.  My  brother  Jim  expressed  it  more 
as  a  sailor  might,"  Mr.  Horace  amended,  with  a 
smile,  "  but  his  words  were  to  that  effect."  And 
when  he  helped  his  fellow-passenger  and  the  canary- 
bird  out  of  the  stage  he  said,  with  pleasant,  old-fash 
ioned  politeness,  that  if  the  Misses  Murray  were 
agreeable,  he  would  call  the  next  day  and  pay  his 
respects  to  them  and  to  Miss  Lucy. 

"  I'd  like  you  to  come,  sir,"  Lucy  said.  "  I'd  like 
to  show  you  a  letter  our  minister  wrote  about  father.'' 

And  Mr.  Horace  remembered  that  he  had  some 
letters,  too.  It  came  into  his  mind  that  perhaps 
some  day  he  would  read  them  ;  perhaps  he  would 
show  some  of  them  to  this  young  lady,  who,  he  was 
sure,  would  have  admired  Jim.  "Jim  was  a  great 
favorite  with  the  ladies,"  he  thought  to  himself,  sigh 
ing  and  smiling. 


"  I  recollect,  just  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  when  my 
brother  James  brought  home  from  one  of  his  voy 
ages  a  little  savage — a  heathen,  in  fact.  My  mother 

342 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

was  exceedingly  alarmed  about  his  spiritual  state  ; 
but  Woolly  (that  was  what  my  brother  James  called 
him)  was  converted  immediately.  My  brother  said 
it  was  because  my  mother  gave  him  a  cake  whenever 
he  named  our  Saviour.  And  I  sometimes  feared 
there  was  truth  in  this  remark." 

Lucy  laughed,  and  Mr.  Horace  looked  pleased, 
and  patted  her  hand  kindly.  Miss  Sarah  and  Miss 
Emily  Murray,  who  were  sitting  on  either  side  of 
the  fire,  smiled,  and  Miss  Sarah  observed  that  mis 
sionaries  often  used  such  methods  as  food  and  glass 
beads  to  attract  poor  savages. 

"My  brother  said  that  just  before  he  landed  he 
suddenly  realized  that  Woolly  had  to  have  clothes ; 
you  know,  being  a  savage  and  a  heathen,  he  had  no 
garments  of  any  kind.  In  fact,  he  was — ah — if  I 
may  say  so — quite — quite,  as  you  may  say,  undressed. 
My  brother  knew  that,  such  being  the  case,  Woolly 
would  be  conspicuous  when  the  ship  should  come 
into  port  and  the  poor  savage  larid  at  the  wharf. 
So  what  did  my  brother  James  do  but  make  Woolly 
lie  down,  with  his  arms  extended,  on  a  piece  of  cloth 
spread  on  the  deck;  then  he  took  a  lump  of  chalk 
and  outlined  him,  as  it  were  ;  then  he  doubled  the 
cloth  and  cut  this  out  like  those  paper  dolls  which 
are  made  for  infants  out  of  newspapers  ;  and  he 
sewed  Woolly  into  these  two  pieces.  Dear  me  !  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  him  !  How  my  mother 
did  laugh  !  *  I  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  your  sewing, 
James,'  says  she.  *  But  my  sewing  gives  a  fig-leaf 
to  Woolly,'  says  my  brother.  James  had  such  a 
ready  tongue." 

u  The  suit  must  have  fitted  very  badly,"  Lucy 
said,  seriously. 

343 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Horace  admitted,  "  but  it  was  warm, 
you  know  ;  and — ah — customary." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course,"  said  Lucy. 

It  was  with  tales  like  this  that  old  Horace  Shields 
tried  to  cheer  his  little  companion  when  he  came  to 
see  her  at  the  Misses  Murray's.  He  had  decided  not 
to  continue  his  journey  East  to  purchase  stock,  but 
order  by  mail  from  Mercer,  where,  he  thought,  he 
would  remain  for  a  few  days  and  see  if  he  could 
not  comfort  this  poor  child  who  seemed,  somehow, 
to  be  on  his  hands.  But  he  stayed  nearly  three 
weeks.  He  came  to  call  almost  every  day,  and  the 
estimable  Miss  Murrays  welcomed  him  warmly,  and 
told  him  that  they  were  much  grieved  at  the  de 
pression  of  their  young  friend.  "And  indeed,"  said 
kind  old  Miss  Sarah,  "  I  fear  I  must  add  that  I  do 
not  approve  of  the  apparent  indifference  dear  Lucy 
displays  towards  her  sister.  Lucy  says  that  Martha 
does  not  like  her  canary  -  bird  ; — which  is  really  a 
foolish  reason  for  wishing  to  reside  in  Mercer.  It 
almost  looks  like  temper.  I  think,  however,  your 
conversation  cheers  her,  and  when  she  is  less  de 
pressed  she  may  come  to  a  more  proper  mind  in 
regard  to  her  family." 

Mr.  Horace  certainly  did  cheer  the  nervous,  wor 
ried  girl ;  and  sometimes  his  own  burden  seemed 
lightened  in  his  effort  to  lighten  hers.  In  telling 
her  his  stories  about  his  brother,  he  led  her  to  talk 
about  her  father,  and  then  about  her  own  affairs  ; 
and  the  third  time  he  called,  when  they  chanced  to 
be  alone,  she  told  him,  palpitating  and  determined, 
that  she  would  "  never,  never,  never  go  back  and 
live  with  her  sister,  because  she  would  not  be  a 
burden  on  brother  Willy." 

344 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

"  But,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  remonstrated, 
"you  cannot  live  alone  here  in  Mercer,  you  know." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  poor  little  Lucy,  "I  know.  But  I 
won't  go  back  to  sister  Martha." 

"  But  what  will  you  do,  my  dear  Miss  Lucy  ?"  Mr. 
Horace  said,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  !"  cried  poor  Lucy;  and  her 
big  deer-like  eyes  had  a  hunted  look  in  them  that 
went  to  the  old  gentleman's  heart.  He  made  a  point 
of  seeing  the  Misses  Murray  by  themselves,  and  they 
all  talked  the  matter  over  with  anxious  seriousness. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  her  to  get  pupils."  Miss 
Sarah  said;  "she  is  not  the  sort  of  young  woman 
who  can  push  and  make  her  own  way." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  she  is  not  more  pleasing  on 
that  account,"  Miss  Emily  said,  with  decision. 

Mr.  Horace  nodded  his  head,  and  said  his  brother 
James  had  always  disliked  excessively  capable  ladies. 
"  My  brother  James  said  he  wouldn't  want  to  sit 
down  at  table  three  times  a  day  with  a  horse- 
marine,"  he  said,  chuckling ;  "  not  but  what  he  had 
great  respect  for  intelligence,"  he  added,  politely. 

And  the  Misses  Murray  said,  oh  yes,  indeed ; 
they  quite  understood.  And  then  they  begged  Mr. 
Horace,  who  was  returning  to  Old  Chester  in  a  few 
days,  to  correspond  with  them  on  the  subject,  so 
that  they  might  advise  the  child  wisely. 

Mr.  Horace  promised  to  do  so  ;  and  during  the  tire 
some  stage  journey  home  he  put  his  mind  upon 
Lucy's  troubles.  He  wondered  what  Jim  would  say 
about  it  all.  Jim  had  his  opinion  of  Mrs.  Willy  ;  Mr. 
Horace  chuckled  as  he  thought  of  it.  "  Estimable 
woman,"  said  Mr.  Horace  to  himself,  "very  estima 
ble  ;  but  not  agreeable.  Poor  Miss  Lucy  !" 
23  345 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

He  thought  of  her  with  an  impulsive  pity  which 
brought  out  the  youth  of  his  ruddy  old  face — that 
fine  youth  of  the  spirit  which  cannot  be  touched 
by  the  body's  age.  Her  grief  for  her  father  was  but 
a  child's  grief,  he  thought,  a  half-smile  on  his  lips  ;  it 
was  not  the  iron  entering  into  the  soul,  but  it  was 
pathetic.  He  thought  how  she  had  shown  him  some 
letters  of  condolence  that  had  been  sent  her,  and 
that  made  him  think,  suddenly,  of  the  letters  that 
had  come  to  him.  It  occurred  to  him,  with  a  warm 
feeling  of  satisfaction,  that  when  he  got  home  he 
would  unlock  the  drawer  in  the  shop  and  take  out 
that  pile  of  letters,  and  perhaps  he  might  send  one 
or  two  to  Miss  Lucy.  He  thought  of  them  eagerly 
as  he  walked  up  from  the  tavern  to  his  own  door  ; 
they  were  like  a  welcome  waiting  for  him  in  the 
desolate  old  house. 

Old  Chester  was  full  of  tranquil  evening  light.  Be 
hind  the  low,  dark  line  of  the  hills  the  daffodil  sky 
was  brightening  into  gold ;  there  had  been  a  shower 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  damp  air  was  sweet  with 
the  smell  of  young  grass  and  buds.  There  were  little 
pools  of  water  shining  in  hollows  of  the  worn  flag 
stone  pavement ;  and  the  brass  stair  rails  and  knobs 
of  the  comfortable  old  brick  houses  glittered,  sudden 
ly,  all  the  way  down  Main  Street.  Mr.  Horace  found 
himself  smiling  as  he  walked  ;  then  he  stopped  with 
a  start  because  Martha  King  spoke  to  him  ;  she 
called  from  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  then 
came  hurrying  across. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  back,  Mr.  Horace,"  she  said, 
and  asked  one  or  two  questions  about  Lucy  and  the 
Misses  Murray.  "  We've  missed  the  shop,  Mr.  Hor 
ace,"  she  ended,  in  a  decided  voice.  There  are  per- 

346 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

sons  whose  hawklike  virtue  seems  always  ready  to 
swoop  down  upon  you,  and  Mr.  Horace  began  to 
cower  a  little,  like  a  flurried  partridge.  "  I  am  sorry 
to  say,"  the  good  Martha  continued,  "that  Mrs. 
Todd  has  been  remiss  about  keeping  the  shop  open. 
I  do  hope  you  will  speak  to  her  about  it,  flatly  and 
frankly.  I  think  it  is  a  duty  we  owe  each  other  not 
to  slight  wrong  -  doing  in  servants.  She  has  not 
kept  regular  hours  at  all,"  Mrs.  King  said,  "and  it 
has  been  a  great  annoyance.  Won't  you  come  in 
and  take  tea  with  us,  Mr.  Horace  ?" 

"No,  ma'am,  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  and  hurried 
into  his  house.  "  Poor  Miss  Lucy  !"  he  said  to  him 
self  ;  "  poor  Miss  Lucy  !" 

She  was  in  his  thoughts  when,  sitting  all  alone 
in  the  shop,  with  his  lamp  on  the  desk  beside  him, 
he  took  out  the  letters  which  had  been  put  away 
all  these  months.  After  all,  these  old  friends  loved 
James.  "  And  well  they  might !"  he  told  himself, 
proudly.  He  opened  one  letter  after  another,  and 
read  the  friendly,  appreciative  words,  nodding  and 
sighing,  and  saying  to  himself,  "  Yes,  indeed  !  Yes, 
he  was  brave ;  he  was  patient.  Who  knows  that  as 
well  as  I  do  ?"  The  comfort  of  it  came  warmly  to 
his  heart,  and  the  applause  braced  and  cheered  him 
until,  for  very  happiness  and  pride,  two  little  hot 
tears  trickled  down  his  cheeks  and  splashed  on  the 
pile  of  letters. 

But  when  he  went  up-stairs  into  the  silent  house, 
into  the  dreadful  emptiness  of  that  room  where  James 
had  lived  for  nearly  thirty  years — the  old  despair  of 
desolation  seized  him  again.  It  was  that  which,  by- 
and-by,  made  him  say  he  would  go  back  to  Mercer  for 
a  few  days,  and  see  what  the  Misses  Murray  had  done 

347 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

for  Miss  Lucy.  He  wanted  to  get  away  from  the 
house — anywhere  !  He  thought  to  himself  that  he 
would  take  the  letters  to  read  to  Miss  Lucy ;  she 
had  been  so  interested  in  Jim  that  she  ought  to 
know  that  his  praise  had  not  been  merely  brother 
ly  regard.  "  And  I  am  really  anxious  to  know  what 
the  poor  young  lady  is  going  to  do,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  when,  to  the  astonishment  of  Old  Chester,  he 
again  took  the  stage  for  Mercer. 

"  Twice  in  two  months  !"  said  Old  Chester  ;  but 
Mrs.  Todd,  who,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  King's  warning,  was 
again  to  keep  the  shop  open  for  his  few  days  of  ab 
sence,  said  it  was  a  real  good  thing,  and  would  do 
the  poor  old  gentleman  good. 


VI 

Little  Lucy  had  not  secured  a  single  pupil  during 
the  weeks  she  had  been  in  Mercer.  She  was  well 
aware  she  could  not  prolong  her  visit  to  the  kind 
Misses  Murray  indefinitely,  but  what  was  she  going 
to  do  ?  Poor  child !  how  many  times  a  day  did  she 
ask  herself  this  question  !  The  very  afternoon  of 
Mr.  Horace's  return  she  had  gone  out  and  walked 
hopelessly  about  until  dusk  in  Mercer's  dirty,  busy 
streets,  to  think  it  over.  The  wind  whirled  up  the 
street  and  caught  her  black  skirts  in  a  twist,  and 
flung  the  dust  into  her  face  and  into  her  eyes.  The 
lights  began  to  twinkle  along  the  bridge  that  spanned 
the  river,  and  then  wavered  down  into  its  black  depths 
in  golden  zigzags.  Against  the  sullen  sky  the  fur 
naces  flared  with  great  tongues  of  flame  and  showers 
of  sparks.  The  evening  traffic  of  the  town,  noisy, 

348 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

dirty,  hideous  ;  the  hurrying  crowds  in  the  streets  ; 
the  rumble  of  the  teams  ;  the  jostling  of  workmen 
— all  gave  her  a  sense  of  her  utter  helplessness,  so 
that  the  tears  began  to  start,  and  she  had  to  wipe 
them  away  furtively.  What  was  going  to  become 
of  her?  The  child,  walking  alone  in  the  spring 
dusk,  looked  down  at  the  river,  and  thought  that 
the  water  was  very  black  and  very  cold.  I  don't 
suppose  she  formulated  any  purpose  in  her  own 
mind;  she  only  thought,  shivering,  "The  water  is 
very  cold." 

Mr.  Horace  met  her  there  on  the  bridge,  and  there 
was  something  about  her  that  made  the  old  gentle 
man's  heart  come  up  in  his  throat.  He  took  her 
hand  and  put  it  through  his  arm,  and  said,  cheerfully, 
"  Come  with  me,  my  dear  Miss  Lucy,  and  let  us  walk 
home  together." 

As  for  Lucy,  she  only  said,  feebly,  " I  won't  go  back 
to  sister  Martha." 

"  You  sha'n't,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Horace,  comfort 
ingly,  "  you  sha'n't,  indeed." 

That  evening  he  talked  the  situation  over  with 
Miss  Sarah  Murray ;  but  she  only  shook  her  head 
and  said  she  hoped  the  child  would  soon  look  at  the 
matter  more  reasonably.  "  I  would  gladly  keep  her 
here  indefinitely,"  Miss  Sarah  said,  in  a  troubled  way, 
"  but  our  income  is  exceedingly  limited — " 

"  Oh,  certainly  not,  certainly  not,"  Mr.  Horace 
broke  in.  He  had  come  to  feel  responsible  for  Lucy, 
somehow ;  he  could  not  have  her  dependent  upon 
Miss  Murray. 

He  got  up  and  said  good-night  with  a  very  correct 
bow,  his  feet  in  the  first  position  for  dancing,  his  left 
hand  under  his  coat-tails. 

349 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Old  Miss  Sarah  responded  in  kind,  and  they  parted 
with  high  opinions  of  each  other. 

But  Mr.  Horace  had  not  reached  the  street  corner 
before  he  heard,  "  Mr.  Shields  !  Mr.  Shields  !"  and 
there  was  Lucy  running  after  him,  bareheaded. 

"I've  thought  of  something,"  she  said,  breathlessly, 
as  she  stood  beside  him,  panting,  under  the  gas-lamp 
on  the  corner.  "  Can't  I  come  and  take  care  of  the 
shop,  Mr.  Shields?  Can't  I  live  with  you  and  take 
care  of  the  shop  ?" 

Mr.  Horace,  in  his  eagerness  to  hurry  her  back  to 
the  house,  hardly  knew  what  he  answered  :  "  Yes, 
yes,  my  dear  young  lady.  Anything  that  you  wish. 
Come  now,  come  !  you  must  get  in-doors.  What  will 
Miss  Murray  say  ?" 

"  I  am  to  come  and  live  with  you  ?"  Lucy  insisted, 
her  eyes  wide  and  frightened.  "  You  won't  make  me 
go  back  to  sister  Martha  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  no,  no  !"  he  said.  It  seemed  to 
Mr.  Horace  as  though  Miss  Sarah  was  an  hour  in 
answering  his  agitated  knock  and  opening  the  door. 
"  Miss  Lucy  just  stepped  out  to  speak  to  me,"  he 
said,  in  reply  to  her  astonished  look. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Sarah,  I  am  going  to  live  with  Mr. 
Shields  !"  said  Lucy. 

Mr.  Shields  came  very  early  the  next  morning  to 
Miss  Murray's  house,  and  was  received  in  the  parlor 
by  Miss  Sarah.  Lucy  was  not  present.  Miss  Sarah 
sat  in  a  straight-backed  chair,  with  her  delicate  old 
hands  crossed  in  her  lap.  There  was  some  color  in 
her  cheek,  and  a  determined  look  behind  her  spec 
tacles. 

"  I  trust,"  said  Mr.  Horace,  "  that  Miss  Lucy  is 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

none  the  worse  for  stepping  out  last  night,  ma'am  ? 
I  was  much  concerned  about  her  when  I  left  her." 

"  She  is  none  the  worse  in  body  ;  but  I  am  deeply 
grieved  at  her  attitude  of  mind,"  said  Miss  Sarah. 

"You  mean  her  unwillingness  to  live  with  her 
sister  ?"  said  Mr.  Horace,  anxiously. 

Old  Miss  Sarah  shook  her  head.  "  She  is  quite  de 
termined  not  to  return  to  her  relatives." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !" 

"  She  needs  to  be  taken  care  of  just  as  much  as  if 
she  were  a  baby,"  said  Miss  Sarah.  "  But  of  course 
this  plan  of  hers  in  regard  to — to  residing  with  you,  is 
impossible.  Even  if  it  were  not  a  question  of  burden 
ing  you  (she  has  an  idea  that  she  would  earn  her 
board,  if  I  may  so  express  it),  it  would  be  impossible. 
I  have  pointed  this  out  to  her." 

"  And  what  does  she  say  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Horace. 

"  She  merely  weeps,"  Miss  Sarah  said  ;  "  she  has 
given  it  up  at  my  request,  of  course  ;  but  she  weeps, 
and  says  she  will  not  go  back  to  Martha." 

Mr.  Horace  hunted  for  his  handkerchief,  and  blew 
his  nose  violently.  "  Dear,  dear  !"  he  said,  "  you  don't 
say  so  ?  Well,  well !  I  wish  my  brother  James  were 
here.  He  would  know  what  to  propose.  Poor  child  ! 
poor  child !" 

Mr.  Horace  got  up  and  stared  out  of  the  window  ; 
then  he  blew  his  nose  again. 

Miss  Sarah  looked  at  the  back  of  his  head,  but  was 
silent.  Suddenly  he  turned,  and  came  and  stood 
beside  her. 

"  Miss  Murray,  you  are  a  female  of  advanced  years 
and  of  every  proper  sentiment ;  all  I  have  seen  of 
you  leads  me  to  feel  a  deep  esteem  for  you."  Miss 
Sarah  bowed.  "Therefore  I  ask  you,  is  it  impossible  ? 

351 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

I  could  give  the  child  a  good  home  while  I  live.  I 
have  recently  lost  my  brother,  ma'am,  and  the  little 
income  devoted  to  his  use  could  be  transferred  to 
Miss  Lucy.  I  find  myself  much  attached  to  her,  and 
would  be  pleased  to  have  her  in  my  home.  It  would 
be  less  lonely  for  me,"  he  said,  his  voice  tremulous  ; 
"  and  my  age,  ma'am,  is  sixty-five.  Surely  it  is  not 
impossible  ?" 

Miss  Sarah,  who  was  nearly  eighty,  grew  red,  but 
she  was  firm.  "  My  dear  sir,  you  are  still  young  "— 
Mr.  Horace  blinked  suddenly,  and  sat  up  straight — 
"  our  friend  is  twenty-three,  and  her  looks  are  pleas 
ing.  Need  I  add  that  this  is  a  wicked  world  ?  I  have 
lived  much  longer  than  you,  sir,  and  I  am  aware  that 
it  is  both  wicked  and  censorious.  Can  you  say  that 
Old  Chester  is  exempt  from  gossip,  Mr.  Shields  ?" 

"No,  ma'am,  I  can't,"  he  admitted,  with  an  un 
happy  look. 

"You  see  it  is  impossible,"  Miss  Sarah  ended, 
kindly. 

Mr.  Horace  sighed. 

Miss  Murray  looked  at  him  and  coughed ;  then 
she  drew  in  her  breath  as  one  who  prepares  to  strike. 
"  If  you  were  sufficiently  advanced  in  years,  my  dear 
sir,  so  that — matrimony  was  out  of  the  question,  it 
would  be  different."  Mr.  Horace  gasped.  "  But 
under  the  circumstances,"  continued  Miss  Sarah, 
sighing,  "  I  see  nothing  before  our  young  friend 
(since  she  is  determined  not  to  return  to  her  sister) 
but  to  work  in  some  factory."  Miss  Murray's  house 
was  in  the  old-fashioned  part  of  Mercer,  and  there 
was  a  factory  just  across  the  street ;  she  waved  her 
hand  towards  it,  genteelly,  as  she  spoke. 

The  room  was  quite  still  except  for  a  coal  dropping 
352 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

from  the  grate.  Mr.  Horace  heard  a  footstep  over 
head,  and  knew  it  was  Lucy  walking  restlessly  about 
in  her  pitiful,  unreasoning  misery.  Involuntarily  he 
followed  Miss  Murray's  gesture,  and  glanced  across 
the  street.  Two  draggled  -  looking  girls  were  just 
entering  the  bleak  doorway  opposite.  "  Little  Miss 
Lucy  do  that  ?  No  ! — impossible  !" 

"  I  am  sixty-five  ;  I  shall  not,  probably,  live  very 
much  longer,"  he  thought.  "  Suppose  it  were  five 
years,  even  ;  she  would  still  be  a  young  woman." 

Poor  little  girl  !  poor  little  frightened,  helpless 
child  !  "  And  I  would  be  less  lonely,"  he  said  to 
himself,  suddenly.  "  Jim  would  call  me  an  old  fool, 
but  it  would  please  him  to  have  me  less  lonely."  Mr. 
Horace  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Miss  Murray,"  he  said, "  would  I  be  taking  advan 
tage  of  our  friend's  youth  and  inexperience  if  I — if  I 
— if  I  suggested — matrimony  ?" 

Miss  Sarah  did  not  seem  startled  ;  indeed  she  even 
smiled. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "it  would  be  an  admirable 
arrangement." 

Mr.  Horace  looked  at  her ;  she  looked  at  him. 
Then  they  began  to  talk  in  whispers,  like  two  con* 
spirators.  "  But  would  she—"  began  Mr.  Horace. 

"  I'm  sure  of  it !" 

"  But  she  is  so  young — " 

"  She  will  outlive  you." 

"  I  would  not  wish  to  take  advantage — " 

"  You  are  only  doing  a  kindness." 

"  Her  relatives — " 

"  Her  relatives  have  driven  her  to  it !"  cried  Miss 
Sarah.  Which  was  really  rather  hard  on  Martha  and 
on  Lucy's  kind  and  affectionate  brother-in-law. 

353 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

"Well,  we'll  protect  her,"  said  Mr.  Horace,  angrily. 
And  then  he  suddenly  looked  blank,  and  said:  "  Would 
you — ah — be  willing  to — to  suggest  it  to  her?  I  feel 
a  sense  of  embarrassment." 

"  That  is  quite  unnecessary,"  Miss  Murray  declared; 
"  for  you  are  doing  a  great  favor,  and  if  I  know  Lucy, 
her  gratitude  will  not  be  lacking.  But  I  will  gladly 
tell  her  of  your  kindness." 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  say  gratitude,"  Mr.  Horace  pro 
tested,  growing  red;  "don't  say  kindness.     Let  her 
regard  it  as  a  favor  to  me,  which  it  is.    I  assure  you 
it  is." 

Miss  Murray  rose,  smiling  ;  and  Mr.  Horace  went 
away  with  a  new  and  extraordinary  sensation.  There 
was  something  in  his  thoughts  that  came  between 
him  and  his  grief  ;  a  sense  of  excitement,  of  chivalry, 
of  hope — even  of  hope  !  He  found  himself  making 
plans  as  he  walked  along  the  street ;  he  saw  Lucy  in 
his  mind's  eye  at  his  lonely  supper-table  ;  he  fancied 
her  sitting  beside  him  in  the  dreadful  evenings  listen 
ing  to  his  stories  of  Jim — it  seemed  to  Mr.  Horace  as 
though  his  fund  of  anecdotes  of  Mr.  James  was  inex 
haustible  ;  he  imagined  her  reading  Jim's  books,  and 
laughing  in  her  light  girlish  voice  as  Jim  used  to 
laugh  in  his  rollicking  bass.  His  heart  grew  warm 
and  light  in  his  breast  as  he  walked  and  thought ; 
and  then  suddenly  it  sunk  :  perhaps  she  would  not 
consent. 


VII 

But  Lucy  consented  —  eagerly,  feverishly.    "Oh, 
Miss  Sarah,  how  kind  he  is  !"  she  said. 

"Very  true,  Lucy,  very  true,"  said  Miss  Sarah, 
354 


MR.    HORACE    SHIELDS 

solemnly.  "I  hope  you  will  always  remember  it. 
Very  few  gentlemen,  Lucy,  of  Mr.  Shields's  age 
would  think  of  such  a  thing.  I  hope  you  will  real 
ize  that  to  ask  a  young,  inexperienced,  foolish  (yes, 
Lucy,  I  fear  I  must  say  foolish)  girl  to— ah — to  bear 
his  name,  is  indeed  a  compliment." 

"  I  will  take  care  of  the  shop,"  said  Lucy,  her  eyes 
beginning  to  shine,  and  the  droop  of  face  and  figure 
fading  as  she  spoke.  "  Oh,  he  is  so  kind  !  And  I 
will  never  go  near  Martha  !" 

"  Fy,  fy!  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Sarah ;  "a  little  reflec 
tion  will  show  you  that  such  a  remark  is  neither 
ladylike  nor  pious." 

Mr.  Horace  came  for  his  answer  at  two  o'clock  ; 
he  had  settled  down  into  feeling  quite  sure  that  it 
was  impossible,  and  that  he  and  Miss  Sarah  must 
think  of  something  else,  and  when  Lucy  met  him, 
smiling  and  half  crying,  and  saying,  "You  are  so 
kind  to  me,  Mr.  Shields  ;  and  indeed,  indeed  I  will  do 
all  I  can  to  deserve  it,"  he  was  almost  dazed  with 
astonishment.  He  protested  that  she  would  be  doing 
him  a  great  favor. 

"  I  am  so  much  older,  my  dear,"  he  said. 

But  Lucy  broke  in,  smiling,  "  You  are  good  to  me, 
just  as  father  was." 

"  I  will  be  good  to  you,  my  dear  ;  I  will  indeed,  to 
the  best  of  my  ability,"  he  said,  earnestly. 

He  smiled  at  her  and  patted  her  hand ;  and  then 
he  said,  "  I  will  communicate  with  your  relatives, 
my  dear  Miss  Lucy." 

"Oh  no,"  Lucy  said,  shrinking,  "don't  tell  them  !" 

But  Miss  Murray  shook  her  head ;  "  Mr.  Shields 
must,  of  course,  refer  to  your  family  for  permis 
sion." 

355 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

Lucy  looked  frightened.  "  Martha  won't  allow  it," 
she  said,  faintly.  "  Oh,  don't  tell  Martha  !" 

"My  dear,  I  could  not  allow  you  to  elope,"  Miss 
Sarah,  remonstrated. 

And  Mr.  Shields  said,  "  No,  no,  that  wouldn't 
do  !" 

Then  the  two  elders  talked  it  over,  Lucy  listening 
and  shivering,  and  saying  sometimes,  "  Oh,  Martha 
will  say  I'll  be  a  burden  to  you,  Mr.  Shields." 

"  I  am  prepared,"  Mr.  Horace  said  to  Miss 
Murray,  "  to  have  them  say  I  am  far  too  old ;  and 
even  that  I  am  taking  advantage  of  our  young 
friend.  But  I  am  sustained,"  said  Mr.  Horace,  "  by 
the  knowledge  of  the  integrity  of  my  motives.  Miss 
Lucy  is  of  age,  and  if  she  chooses  my  home  it  is  not 
the  affair  of  William's  wife,  or  even  of  William,  for 
whom  I  have  a  sincere  regard.  But  I  am  inclined 
to  think,  ma'am,  that  it  will  perhaps  be  wise  to — to 
bring  this  matter  to  a  head — if  I  may  so  express  it, 
before  they  have  a  chance  to  interfere.  I  will  com 
municate  with  William  and  his  wife ;  but  before 
they  can  remonstrate  we  will  take  steps,  we  will  take 
steps  !  What  do  you  think  of  that,  ma'am?" 

"  Admirable  !"  said  Miss  Murray.    "  Admirable !" 

"  However,"  said  Mr.  Horace,  blinking  his  eyes 
suddenly,  as  though  something  cold  had  been  thrown 
in  his  face,  "  it  will  be  very  unexpected  in  Old 
Chester  !" 

It  was  unexpected.  Old  Chester,  too,  gasped  and 
blinked  as  though  it  had  a  cold  douch. 

Willy  King  was  angry  ;  but  Martha,  very  sensibly, 
said  that  it  was  foolish  to  be  angry.  "But  I  am 
mortified,"  she  said,  "and  I  don't  understand  it." 

356 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

Old  Chester,  when  it  heard  the  news,  nearly  went 
out  of  its  mind  with  agitation  and  disapproval — 
"and  sorrow,"  Mrs.  Drayton  said,  "that  the  dead 
were  soon  forgotten !"  Mrs.  Dale  said  that  Mr. 
Horace  had  taken  advantage  of  that  poor,  poor 
child's  youth.  Mrs.  Wright,  on  the  contrary,  felt 
that  it  was  really  disgusting  to  see  a  girl  so  mer 
cenary  as  to  marry  an  old  man  for  a  home.  Mrs. 
Ezra  Barkley  said,  gently,  that  he  had  been  so  lonely, 
poor  Mr.  Horace !  no  doubt  he  just  couldn't  stand 
the  desolation  of  his  life. 

"  But  that  doesn't  explain  the  other  fool,"  her  sis 
ter-in-law  interrupted,  with  a  snort. 

"  Do  you  know  what  Dr.  Lavendar  said  when  he 
heard  it  ?"  Rose  Knight  asked,  suddenly.  "  He  said, 
'  Hooray  for  Horace  !'  " 

"  Dr.  Lavendar  is  getting  very  old,"  said  Mrs. 
Dale,  sternly. 

After  the  first  excitement  of  it  was  over,  it  came 
to  Martha  King's  ears  that  Lucy  had  married  to  es 
cape  living  with  her.  (Those  things  always  leak 
out ;  some  friend,  with  a  frankness  as  conscientious 
probably  as  Martha's  own,  "  thought  Lucy's  sister 
should  be  told  "). 

When  poor  Martha  heard  why  Lucy  had  commit 
ted  this  extraordinary  folly,  she  turned  white,  smit 
ten  into  silence.  "  I  tried  to  do  my  duty,"  she  said, 
painfully,  and  made  no  reproaches.  But  she  suf 
fered.  "  I  did  everything  I  could  for  her  best  good," 
she  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  alone  working ;  then 
she  wiped  her  eyes  furtively  on  the  unbleached  cot 
ton  sheet  she  was  hemming  for  the  missionary  bar 
rel.  "  Lucy  doesn't  love  me,"  she  thought,  sadly  ; 
"nobody  does  but  William.  But  I've  always  tried  to 

357 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

do  my  duty."  Once,  blunderingly,  looking  down  at 
her  fingers  trembling  in  her  lap,  she  said  something 
like  this  to  Dr.  Lavendar. 

"  Martha,  my  dear,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  love  more, 
and  do  less.  Do  you  remember  Isaiah  (and  he  was  a 
pretty  energetic  old  fellow,  too)  says,  *  their  strength 
is  to  sit  still '?  Our  Heavenly  Father  is  just  as  anx 
ious  to  improve  things  as  we  are ;  but  if  you'll  no 
tice,  He  lets  us  make  our  blunders  and  learn  our 
lessons.  And  He  works  by  love  oftener  than  by 
the  thunders  of  Sinai.  But  come,  come  !  We  all 
love  you,  and  Lucy  will  know  that  she  does,  too,  one 
of  these  days." 

But  how  happily  it  did  turn  out !  Mr.  Horace 
lived  more  than  the  five  years  he  had  allowed  him 
self  ;  and  no  wonder,  with  the  affection  his  little  girl 
gave  him,  and  the  need  there  was  to  take  care  of 
her,  and  keep  her  happy  ;  a  man  really  can't  die,  no 
matter  how  good  his  intentions  are,  when  he  is 
needed.  And,  besides  that,  Lucy's  eager,  childlike 
sympathy  was  like  some  pure  and  healing  touch. 
Gradually  he  took  up  old  interests,  and  liked  to 
meet  old  friends.  His  grief  for  his  brother  passed 
down  through  the  ruined  habits  of  living  into  the 
depths  of  life,  and  after  a  while  settled  into  a  habit 
of  its  own.  Then  the  old  interests  closed  in  upon 
him — just  as  a  ruffled  pool  smooths  and  closes  over 
the  crash  that  has  shattered  its  even  silver  ;  though 
all  the  while  the  weight  is  buried  in  its  heart. 

It  was  a  sunny,  placid,  happy  old  house  in  those 
days,  though  nobody  could  say  it  was  sensible. 
Dick's  cage  hung  in  a  south  window,  and  the  little 
yellow  creature  splashed  about  in  his  china  bath, 

358 


MR.   HORACE    SHIELDS 

and  scattered  millet  seeds,  and  shouted  his  little 
songs  all  day  long.  Lucy  used  to  come  and  sit  in 
the  shop  while  she  shelled  the  peas  for  dinner,  or  did 
her  bit  of  worsted-work.  And  she  kept  things  dust 
ed  ;  perhaps  not  quite  as  Martha  would  have  done ; 
the  backs  of  the  pictures  may  have  left  something  to 
be  desired.  But  so  long  as  nobody  knew  it,  what  dif 
ference  did  it  make?  This  lack  of  principle  must 
make  the  conscientious  grieve ;  but  Lucy  and  old 
Mr.  Horace  were  just  as  happy  as  though  their 
principles  were  good.  They  talked  a  great  deal  of 
Mr.  Jim.  In  the  evenings  they  sat  up-stairs  in  the 
big,  bare  parlor — a  little  less  bare  now,  because  Lucy 
made  gay  worsted  covers  for  all  the  chairs  ;  and  Mr. 
Horace  tried  to  teach  her  how  to  play  chess.  To  be 
sure,  the  fool's  or  scholar's  mate  might  end  the 
game  every  night,  but  it  gave  him  a  chance  to  tell 
her  of  Jim's  prowess.  He  gave  her  Jim's  books  to 
read,  and  though  she  did  not  know  enough  to  laugh 
at  the  right  places  in  Mr.  Jim's  beloved  Shandy,  she 
felt  a  breathless  interest  in  the  Three  Musketeers ; 
and  old  Mr.  Horace  annotated  it  with  Jim's  com 
ments. 

They  used  to  read  over  those  letters  of  sympathy, 
too,  which  suggested  so  many  stories  of  the  big,  gen 
erous,  rollicking  old  man  who  had  died  young,  that 
little  by  little,  as  Mr.  Horace  told  this,  or  remem 
bered  that,  or  laughed  at  the  other,  James  came 
back  into  his  life.  But  there  was  never  any  misery  in 
the  thought  of  him  ;  only  acceptance,  and  patience, 
and  an  understanding  which  mere  death  could  never 
shake  or  break.  James  was  dead ;  but  wfcat  was 
death  between  him  and  James  ? 

So  they  went  on  being  happy.  And  on  winter 
359 


OLD    CHESTER    TALES 

evenings,  or  when  the  summer  dusk  shut  down,  and 
Lucy  sat  playing  foolish  tunes  on  a  little  old  jing 
ling  piano,  it  was  surprising  how  often  a  certain  ad 
mirer  of  common  -  sense  came  poking  in  to  smoke 
with  Mr.  Horace,  and  listen  to  Lucy's  chatter,  or 
maybe  take  a  hand  at  cribbage. 

In  fact,  Martha  King  said  that  never  since  they 
had  been  married  had  William  had  so  many  night- 
calls. 


THE   END 


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JUL  2  3  1958 


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